


Ocean Blues

by lentezon



Series: Songs of the Seven Seas [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirate, Bottom Dean, Community: deancasbigbang, Genre-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Merpeople, Minor Character Death, Swordfighting, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-10
Updated: 2014-10-10
Packaged: 2018-02-20 09:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 38,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2424068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lentezon/pseuds/lentezon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The crew is supposed to be merciless, and the ship’s captains on friendly terms with mermaids, some of the most dangerous creatures to dwell in the deep waters of the sea. They attack ships at will and leave no survivors, entire crews falling victim to their swords and the mermaids’ songs. But these are merely the stories, and Alfie Jones is about to find out the true background of <i>The Impala</i>—one that might well be even more unbelievable than the rumours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [Kiki](http://nunubunkie.tumblr.com) for the [amazing art](http://nunubunkie.tumblr.com/tagged/ocean%20blues) and help with the fic! I had lots of fun working with you.
> 
> Also: [Fic Masterpost](http://lentezonfic.livejournal.com/985.html) with extended author's notes and features.
> 
> This fic now comes with a [customized PDF](http://www.mediafire.com/download/s9f6so08ik7zab8/)!

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/wTAPqnK.jpg)

 

   “We cannot head eastward from this point,” the captain of _Hell’s Rise_ is told in certainty. “We will surely run into _The Impala_.”

   The captain, a short but imposing man by the name of Fergus Crowley, sneers at the implication. “You believe the stories, Jones? Are you afraid of a few pirates with names bigger than their swords?”

   Jones gives no immediate reply, for yes, he _is_ afraid of the ship. He’s heard that the crew is merciless. Rumour has it that the ship’s captains—for she has two, for reasons nobody has anything but vague speculations about—are on friendly terms with mermaids, some of the most dangerous creatures to dwell in the deep waters of the sea. They attack ships at will and leave no survivors, entire crews falling victim to their swords and the mermaids’ songs.

   “Dean Winchester is nothing but a boy with a lot of luck and a reputation he can’t carry. Set sail to the east,” Crowley commands in his low drawl. “I’m not afraid of these bastards.”

   The captain speaks like he has a personal vendetta against Dean Winchester. It does nothing to ease Jones’ nerves.

   Fergus Crowley, according to himself, is a tradesman. Contrary to what her name suggests, Crowley’s ship is actually a small merchant ship, not meant for big fights. That’s about how much likeness the _Hell’s Rise_ shares with Crowley. The man does perform various trade transactions with clients, but never fairly, or even always consensually. He’s a pirate, plain and simple. He’s just a little better dressed.

   It is by crimp also that Crowley has found himself his crew. Not all of them, of course, but plenty of his crewmembers hadn’t been as eager to follow him as the eagerness of the other few suggests.

   Alfie Jones had never wanted to end up on a ship. In fact, for no apparent reason he’d always taken a slight dislike to the sea. He had wanted to become a blacksmith, like his father and _his_ father before him, for they had made the most sought-after swords of the entire region and he had wanted to keep the legacy alive.

   He’d been at work in the shop when he first met Captain Crowley.

   Looking back, he can’t even remember why he had agreed to leave with the man. He had always been content working in the smithy. But now his family believes him dead and he can no longer imagine himself a different kind of life.

   It’s situations like this, with the _Hell’s Rise_ bearing down on another pirate ship, that make Alfie rethink his decision. He isn’t particularly fond of throwing his life on the line just because their captain is decidedly unimpressed by all the stories about this enemy pirate ship—or any ship at all.

   Nonetheless, he relays the orders to the rest of the crew, who react to it as unhappily as Alfie feels. Yet there’s nothing else for it. Once Crowley sets his mind to something, he will never sway from his goal again—although he will resort to different measures if proven necessary.

   They turn bearing east, a wide stretch of nothing ahead of them, sea and horizon as blue as the other.

   The waters stay too calm for too long. It gives the crew a false sense of hope that maybe they can get through this unscathed, and the captain a reason to laugh at their fear. Alfie knows the hope is false the moment they hear Gavin yell about the pitch black sails of _The Impala_ from the crow’s nest.

   _God help us._

   The smirk slides off the captain’s face, a determined frown settling in its place. He looks frustrated rather than scared. “Straight ahead. Falling off course won’t stop them. You will show them no fear, and when it comes to it, no mercy. We will put an end to this nonsense once and for all.”

   This surprises Alfie, and further increases his apprehension. The captain never does the dirty work himself, and thus, he thinks, there must be a silent master plan. But he can’t read Crowley, no one seems to be able to, so he’ll just have to wait it out.

   They wait for the enemy galleon to approach, schooling their faces to hide any fear. Somehow, through his nerves, Alfie idly thinks that she’s a very beautiful vessel—so dark she’s almost black, and much bigger than their own merchant vessel. He recognizes the figurehead as resembling a Capricornus. Around the ships wooden beak drapes a gleaming bronze fish tail, which tapers into the body of a slender hoofed beast. From its deer-like head protrude two long horns, which slope behind it towards the bow. With its body poised for battle, it bares sharp teeth towards the horizon in a silent bleat. It’s the symbol of unity between land and sea, and Alfie thinks it ironic. It’s probably meant that way.

   He’s so intrigued he almost forgets to be afraid.

   The Jolly Roger is being raised, flying almost innocently from its mast. Alfie can’t help but notice one of the swords ends in a tail—a mermaid’s no doubt, given the ship’s reputation.

   The black galleon approaches faster than her size should have allowed, even with her five sails open. They couldn’t outrun it if they made full sail. Their cannons are at the ready, to be fired the moment the target is in range.

   He tells himself his fear is ridiculous. Other than being cruel and heartless, these pirates are no different from any others. Reputation or no, they’re just people, and people can be killed.

   It starts with the command of “Fire!” yelled out loudly and aggressively by Gordon.

   Their port side cannons are the first to fire, issuing several loud, consecutive cracks that used to scare the hell out of Alfie. Most of the cannonballs end up in the sea, but he sees at least one crash into _The Impala_ as well. The enemy’s answer is swift, however, raining its fiery response down on the _Hell’s Rise_.

   Alfie fights the pointless desire to duck. His muscles are straining with nerves as he watches the galleon, until they have become too close for the use of cannons, and the dreaded moment of confrontation arrives. One of the pirates’ grapples lands right in front of Alfie before it’s being dragged back to clasp the gunwale of the _Hell’s Rise_. Just like that, the pirates are entering the smaller vessel’s main- and quarterdeck, vaporing in a way that sounds almost enthusiastic. They’re probably enjoying this, Alfie thinks.

   He takes a defensive stance, his sword steady in front of him. He knows how to swordfight. He tried to train himself with his father’s swords when he was younger, and has had to defend himself several times during his years at sea. But he’s never experienced anything close to this. There’s never been such an anticipation before a fight, because Crowley knows not to piss off the wrong people, and thus the few times they had to fight at all have been far in between.

   Sudden movement to his right catches his eye and he whirls around, easily parrying a pirate’s sword.

   He’s surrounded by yelling voices and the clanging sounds of swords on swords, yet the pirate fighting him is a quiet one. The enemy looks young, smiling sweetly at Alfie as their swords clash.

   He’s sweating even in the cold sea breeze, trying to hold his own against someone obviously more experienced than himself. The smell of salt is omnipresent, sweat and the sea, and there’s the unmistakable smell of gunpowder. It’s the smell of battle. Alfie tries to ignore it.

   At least he’s holding his own in the fight, like several of his other crewmates. From the corner of his eye he can see Brady fighting an older man who’s much too experienced for him. Gavin, he knows, is hiding in the crow’s nest. Crowley is nowhere to be seen.

   Like father, like son.

   It doesn’t matter, however, for this is fight or die no matter what, and despite everything, Alfie isn’t prepared for it to be the latter.

   It’s like music, the sound of swords clanging against each other, and like music he dances to it. That’s how his father had taught him, once. _Footwork is important, Alfie._

   They’re doing well. Alfie realizes in that moment that although the pirates are good, they’re only human as well. He knew that, but at the same time he never really believed it until now. They might actually stand a chance.

   That is, until the singing starts.

   He knows what it is, knows it will be his death no matter what he does now. It’s only a matter of deciding which way he prefers to die.

   He presses his hands against his ears, dropping his sword in the process.

   He feels the tip of his opponent’s sword under his chin and knows this is it. His death will be a sailor’s worst nightmare, cruel and bloody without anyone to remember him. He used to want people to remember him.

   Alfie waits for the final stroke to come, but it doesn’t. His opponent continues to stand idly, tip of his sword lightly touching Alfie’s throat, scrutinizing him.

   People would say this is the point he should pick up his sword and go for it, because he isn’t going to survive either way and he might as well take as many men down with him as he can. But Alfie doesn’t feel any loyalty to this ship or this crew, and he prefers a quick sword stroke to slowly being dragged to the bottom of the ocean by mermaids, so he keeps his hands firmly in place.

   He lets his eyes skim over the main deck, not daring to move his head. It only shows what he already knows: that this is mostly a one-sided fight.

   Many of the pirates have their fingers in their ears, too, but several haven’t. Alfie wonders vaguely why those that haven’t don’t seem bothered by the singing at all when several of _Hell_ ’s crew are already hanging overboard after stupidly deciding what Alfie had not: that taking the enemy down is more important than anything else.

   The men still able to function are roaming the ship now, bringing up valuable items. They don’t, however, seem to be looking for treasure, which surprises Alfie. If there’s anything he’s learnt, it’s that pirates value gold above anything else.

   These are, most likely, the most terrifying moments of Alfie’s life. He just wants it to be over already, for the pirates to spare him any cruelty that might still come his way. But instead, it seems like they are waiting for something.

   That is, until Crowley is being dragged out of wherever his hiding place had been. The captain doesn’t look afraid, and Alfie wonders whether he has a plan.

   “Winchester.”

   “Crowley.”

   “Are you really going to kill me? After everything I would’ve done for you?”

    The man Crowley’s speaking to—Alfie assumes him to be _The Impala_ ’s captain—laughs out loud at that. “Everything you would’ve done for us? You ordered to get us _killed_.” But he doesn’t look like he’s about to kill the other man.

   An extremely tall man is saying something to the captain, his face angry, but the captain—Dean Winchester, Alfie remembers from his chat with Crowley earlier—shrugs him off.

   “I could help you, you know. Give you a purpose.”

   “Yeah? What purpose would that be, huh? Take innocent people’s lives so yours will be marginally better?” snaps the tall man. Alfie wonders whether he’s the other captain, to be talking over Winchester like that. And isn’t he accusing Crowley of exactly the same thing as they are doing themselves?

   But Winchester doesn’t say anything about it. Rather, he looks at Crowley expectantly, like he’s waiting for an answer to that question. Like he’s considering taking him up on his offer if the answer is good enough.

   “Shut up, you big oaf,” Crowley tells the tall man. “Dean here knows what I’m talking about, doesn’t he?” He smirks. “You could be rich, Winchester. You could be ruling the seven seas, even. My offer still stands, you know.”

   Winchester’s jaw is clenched, but there’s something in his eyes that says he likes the sound of it. It scares Alfie more than anything else he’s seen today. Vicious pirates falling prey to Crowley’s manipulation doesn’t sound like such a great plan.

   “What’s your deal?”

   Alfie realizes only now that he’s taken his hands off his ears at some point during the conversation, and notices the mermaids have stopped singing for the time being. He also realizes that even though this captain should know better, even though this captain is his enemy, he isn’t going to let Crowley strike one more deal.

   He kicks out at the unsuspecting pirate before him, jumping up and twisting the young pirate’s arm so that he has to let go of the sword. It’s almost too easy, with the boy paying attention to his captain’s exchange rather than his opponent, but it doesn’t matter. Somehow, all Alfie can think of is how much Crowley has taken from him, and how he now has the chance to never let it happen to anyone again. Even if they are pirates.

   He charges.

   It seems to come as a surprise to everyone when the youngest member of _Hell_ ’s crew barges straight into their captain, because no one readily responds to his movements until his sword is aimed at the captain.

   “Don’t.”

   It’s the extremely tall man who’d been arguing with his captain earlier. Alfie snorts, not taking his gaze off Crowley. “I thought you were keen on getting rid of him.”

   “Dean,” a gravelly voice says from behind Alfie. He doesn’t dare look around, but Dean does, almost like waking up from a trance.

   “Yeah.” Finally, he lifts up his sword again, and Alfie looks at it nervously but stands his ground. If he’s going to die, he’s going to take the man who’s ruined his life with him.

   But the sword isn’t aimed at him. It’s aimed at Crowley.

   The hesitation in Dean Winchester’s eyes is almost entirely gone now. They flick up to the person behind Alfie—who still doesn’t dare look away from the scene in front of him—and turn hard. “Yeah,” he says again, more confident this time. “You know what, Crowley? We’re ruling the seven seas just fine without you.”

   It’s anticlimactic in the end.

   Dean poises his sword for a killing stroke. Crowley ducks away, still looking smug. “Are you sure that is really what you want to do?”

   Alfie can see the answer is no. He can also see that Winchester’s crewmembers don’t agree with that sentiment.

   With a sneer from the tall man, Crowley is killed easily with a single, merciless sword stroke. And that’s it, really, that is how easily those pirates can win a fight. In a way, it’s horrific, but Alfie can’t deny even to himself that he’s also slightly intrigued by these men, who can so easily resist a mermaid’s call and can fight so smoothly.

 

   The survivors end up in a row next to each other. There are more of them than Alfie had been expecting, but many, like him, are bleeding. He can see blood dribbling out of Walker’s mouth and knows he won’t last the day.

   “You there, kid,” a rough voice sounds from above him, and Alfie is surprised to realize it’s directed at him. He looks up defiantly, to stare right in the face of Dean Winchester again—a surprisingly handsome man for a pirate, with golden hair and eyes like a treasure. “What’s your name?”

   “Jones.”

   “You got a first name, too?”

   “Alfie.”

   Dean Winchester looks at him for a long moment. “Okay. You’re coming with us, Alfie.”

   No. He’s spent the past years of his life on a ship he’s never really wanted to be on, and it isn’t happening to him again. Especially not a pirate ship. Whatever it is they are planning for him, it will be slow and painful, and he will not have it.

   He’s about to simply abandon ship and join his crewmates with the mermaids when a hand grabs his bicep firmly. No getting away. No escaping.

   He thinks again of how all he’d wanted in life had been to set forth the family business. Yet here he is, once again being dragged onto a ship he doesn’t really want to get on, once again not knowing what fate is awaiting him.

   _The Impala_ is slightly bigger than _Hell’s Rise_ , he notes for the first time as they board it. He tries to take in his new surroundings as thoroughly as possible, and thus barely registers the captain giving the order to burn _Hell’s Rise_ in an ode to its name. The thought of it doesn’t anger him as much as it should.

   “Head to the north! And do it fast, we need to get out of the way here as quickly as we can.”

   “Is this a regular occurrence, you taking hostages while destroying entire ships?” Alfie asks the horrendously tall man still holding him, sounding braver than he feels.

   “You’re not a hostage, lad.”

   “No? Then what am I, something to feed the mermaids later, to keep them happy and away from you?”

   Now that they’re moving again, the blond captain makes his way towards him again, smirking as he hears those words. “We don’t need no bait to keep the mermaids away from us. You’re gonna calm the hell down and then we’ll have a few words about your use on this ship, shall we?”

   He closes his eyes in frustration and resignation at the same time, just for a moment. When he opens them again, he’s looking up, trying to force back his fear.

   The strange design of the Jolly Roger is still flying above his head.

   “Hey—relax, yeah? We ain’t gonna throw you overboard, and we’re not gonna be torturing you either.” He smirks, although his eyes don’t echo the sentiment. “We do need a new crewmate to replace our lookout, though.”

 


	2. Wearing and Tearing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Distantly, he thought he heard someone singing, but he figured that was probably a hallucination. His mum used to sing for him, way back when Dean was little and feeling ill. John would say it’d make him weak, but Dean had liked it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter-specific warnings: Torture, allusions to non-con

   _The Impala’s Revenge,_ notorious for decades under the flag of John Winchester, had become a less regular sight on the seven seas under Captain Dean Winchester. His father before him had set out to kill the pirate who’d murdered his wife, and had left a trail of destruction in his wake. But with both said pirate and John dead, and his oldest son Dean at the head of the crew, the ship hunted only for those renowned for their greed and cruelty.

   They never told that in the stories.                

   Dean didn’t mind, though, because often their notoriety helped them in the sense that the weakest ones, those captains who cower away from them when they arrive rather than stand their ground, would give themselves over far too easily. It was incredibly stupid, and frankly almost a little boring at times, but it worked and he wasn’t about to complain.

   Alastair, unfortunately, wasn’t one of those captains.

   “Dean Winchester. I was wondering when you and your ragtag little crew would come for me.”

   “Gotta keep the suspense alive,” Dean said easily, but with a gruff undertone in his voice. “Glad to hear it’s still workin’. Can’t have you torturing any more innocent souls for fun, though.”

   Alastair—he went by one name alone—was notorious among pirates for not killing other captains, but capturing them, torturing them. There had been a time during which bodies would wash ashore, swollen from being in the water for a long time and bearing cuts all over their bodies. For a long time, authorities had assumed (or rather, Dean thought, told the public, because pirates were hardly high priority anyway) that it was sea monsters at work. In reality, there was no sea monster that would let its victims go like that. The most notorious and violent sea monsters were too big and blunt to make small cuts, let alone make them look so elegant. The great Norse Sea Serpent generally swallowed its prey whole and had never been sighted this far south, and the Kraken was under Davy Jones’ control—a man who didn’t take pleasure in taking his time with people; besides, it preferred killing by shoving entire ships into its mouth. Not even mermaids, the most feared aquatic creatures, would murder men for fun; rather, as far as Dean knew, they took them down into the deep and used them to still their incessant hunger. Not a single monster killed men without a purpose, except men, and Dean had decided it was high time to put an end to this crap.

   Which brought them here, on the quarterdeck of an unfamiliar frigate somewhat smaller than _The Impala._ The sails looked as torn and ugly as Dean would expect from a ship with crew like this one, and although the rest of the ship appeared to be fairly well maintained, Dean somehow felt like the grime of the ship was seeping into his limbs as he faced Alastair, sword out and waiting for the first strike.

   “Have you ever tried it, Winchester?” The captain of _The Demon_ smiled, not at all impressed by the other pirate. “Putting your knife to work just to hear them scream at every touch? I bet you’d like it.”

   “Yeah?” Dean asked, circling around as to not allow the other man any closer. “Why’s that?”

   “Because you’re _curious_.”

   Sometimes, blood running down limbs—whether that be his own or an enemy’s—fascinated Dean. He was intrigued by the idea of usually smooth skin being split open and being able to patch itself back up, even though he regularly needed their designated nurse to help his body along a bit, to the point where he’d demanded to be taught how to heal such wounds as well. Now, most of his crew could stitch each other up should the need arise, and he was proud of that.

   That didn’t mean he was gonna just grab a knife and break people’s skin for his own pleasure. He saw enough of that shit in his life as it was, and it wasn’t pretty. Still, he jabbed, “You volunteering to be my next subject? I could use some practice.”

   “I’m volunteering to be your mentor, and it looks like your entire crew could.”

   They were outnumbered, Dean knew as much, but not by many. The problem lay in the fact that Alastair’s crew was vicious, and boasted the advantage of fighting on a familiar ship. Alastair wasn’t known for his fair fighting practices, and he’d taught his crew well.

   Both of them were waiting for the other to make the first move. It seemed stupid, as making the first move tended to start you off on offense rather than defence, but Dean knew enough to understand that sometimes, things were more complicated than that.

   “I’d hurry, if I were you. It’s your crew dying there, Winchester, not mine.” He smiled, showing teeth that made Dean want to gag at the sight of them. He gestured towards the main deck, and Dean didn’t have to look to know he was right. He’d wanted to take out Alastair so badly he’d become reckless, and it was costing his friends their lives.

   “Unless you’d rather watch the show.”

   Dean didn’t answer. Instead, he did the stupidest thing he could’ve done, namely exactly what Alastair wanted him to do. He charged.

   He’d heard Alastair was skilful, but such things were said of many a man. Dean knew how few of the stories of himself were actually true. Alastair, however, honoured his reputation, using his sword not as a blunt weapon but as a graceful extension of himself, one as malicious as the other. And he _was_ graceful, more so than Dean could’ve imagined him being. The man was like a snake, hissing and slithering as he fought.

   Dean, for his part, answered in kind. He may not have been as graceful as Alastair, but he was most certainly good at what he did. He’d grown up in this life, after all, and John had taught him from a young age. The clashing of their swords drowned out the sounds around them, attention focused on this fight. With a slippery opponent like this one, fast reflexes were crucial.

   “Not bad,” Alastair said as Dean blocked his sword again. “You’d do well on me ship.”

   Dean ignored the words, furrowing his brow and making a more forward move. The last thing he needed was to let Alastair’s taunting words get to him, so he wouldn’t. He swung his sword in a wide arm rather than keeping it close to him this time, aiming for Alastair’s stomach from a different angle. But Alastair saw it coming, taking a backstep gracefully while simultaneously answering with a stroke of his own. Their swords clanged loudly against each other with the force of it. Neither of them acted like they felt the ring of it, but Dean could feel it running all the way up to his arm, jostling his shoulder. He grit his teeth and drew his arm closer, not in an attempt to lessen the pain but to strike out again.

   Alastair parried Dean’s attempt of a bout and grinning at him as though this were but some sort of game to him. He then mimicked the action, forcing Dean to hold his sword in a very uncomfortable position as to not to be sliced open. Regardless of the strain in his arm, Dean put pressure against his sword, forcing Alastair’s steel away and jumping backwards so he could reposition, raising his sword back into stance.

   They circled around again, although this time it didn’t last long. Now that their fight had really begun, Dean wanted to finish it before Alastair’s crew decided to back him up. (No self-respecting pirate would let that happen in a one-on-one fight, but then again, no self-respecting pirate would torture others slowly, either. Pirates were cruel and bloodthirsty, but generally cared nothing for letting others wither away on their ship for no useful purpose.)

   This wasn’t gonna do, and Dean knew it. He had to think smarter. He was already trying to catalogue all of Alastair’s moves in order to better anticipate his next one, but it seemed almost as though Alastair was just playing with him.

   That should make it easier, Dean thought. Alastair almost didn’t even seem to be trying to deal a fatal strike. Dean was, however, and he shuffled a bit to his right before swinging into movement once more, aiming lower this time. It was an attempt not to kill, but to maim, and it felt stupidly satisfying to see the steel force its way into Alastair’s thigh, making the captain grunt in pain.

   It was only a small victory, however. The wound wasn’t enough to incapacitate the other captain, yet it did make him more intent to hurt.

   Alastair’s bastard sword was lighter than Dean’s longsword, and it moved more gracefully than Dean’s. The enemy captain was able to manoeuvre it easily between his hands. He’d been fighting with his right arm up until now, yet suddenly he passed on the sword to his left hand, enabling him to unexpectedly curl it around Dean’s steel and turning it down in such a way that Dean could nearly feel his wrist break as he tried to hold on to his weapon. He was forced to crouch down a little, giving Alastair the leeway to quickly let his attack flow into another and aim for Dean’s right hip. His weapon sunk in deep enough to hurt. Dean could feel the blood starting to run down his thigh immediately. It soaked into the fabric of his pants and the wound stung as sweat and sea water reached it, but he couldn’t afford to let it distract him.

   Dean stumbled as he straightened back up, yielding his weapon too recklessly as he hadn’t found his balance yet. Alastair sidestepped the swing of the blade and took the opportunity to injure Dean’s already hurting sword arm further, causing the younger captain to inadvertently let go of his sword.

   “Really?” Alastair mused. “I thought you’d be better than that. Harder to beat. This is almost boring.” His sword was pointed at Dean’s throat, tip touching the skin lightly. Well, bugger.

   But Dean was hardly shy of resolting to more primitive measures to save his hide. His uninjured right leg shot out, foot hooking around the back of Alastair’s knee forcefully and dragging the enemy captain down with him. Dean felt the weapon lightly scratch his throat, but it was hardly a lethal cut. He scrambled for his own sword, jumping up right at the moment his fingers enclosed the cold hilt.

   Alastair bared his teeth as the both of them took a stance again. Dean was well aware he was at a disadvantage here, and no longer just for being on an unfamiliar ship. He was bleeding from his hip and, although barely, his throat, and the muscles of his sword arm were screaming at him in anger of their exertion.

   “I could kill you, you know,” Alastair said slowly. “I could deal the final stroke without exerting myself. You know that, don’t you, Dean? You know you are no match for me, yet you try, because you are convinced of—what? Your own superiority?” He clicked his tongue. “But that can’t be it, as you must know this isn’t true. You are nothing, Dean Winchester, compared to us, and you know it.”

   “So why don’t you? Kill me now?” Dean asked, knowing that he should ignore Alastair’s taunts but apparently being incapable of doing so.

   “Oh, but where would be the fun in that?”

   Dean let his upper body move along with his weapon, barrelling forward into Alastair full-force. They’d been dancing around each other far too long already. This needed to end.

   The unexpected force behind Dean’s attack seemed to surprise Alastair, to such an extent that Dean managed to wedge his sword into Alastair’s shoulder before he received an answer to the attack. Unfortunately, his method of attack had him ended up close to Alastair. Too close. Despite the captain’s obvious pain, he was able to use his unoccupied arm to lash out at Dean—not with the blade of his sword, but the hilt.

   Dean stumbled backwards, the blow on his head significant enough to make him dizzy.

   “I’d say playtime is over, wouldn’t you?”

   “Fuck you,” Dean spat, because he had black spots in his field of vision and already a raging headache.

   “No, I don’t think that will be an option,” Alastair drawled. “Though you will make a beautiful addition to me rack. Who knows, you might get lucky.”

   Dean’s heart was beating violently against his ribcage. All of his muscles were taut, their alertness making up for the blurredness of his mind. He wasn’t gonna go down this easily, though.

   Except he saw two versions of Alastair, one a little more to the left than the other, and although he swung out his arm as the enemy captain approached, there wasn’t sufficient force behind it. The pirate captain easily parried the attempt, grabbed Dean’s hurting sword arm and twisted it so that Dean barrelled into him, his back against Alastair’s chest and the bastard sword against his neck.

   “I’m going to have a lot of fun with you,” Alastair whispered in Dean’s ear before the latter was hit on the temple again and everything turned to black.

 

   When he came to, it was somewhere inside, a dark and musty cell that made him assume he was somewhere far below deck. From the circumstances, he guessed it to be close to the bilge; as far away from open air as possible. Which made sense, of course, in case he’d be stupid enough to attempt escape. Dean knew as well as anyone that the only way to escape from a ship was to abandon it and, inevitably, drown.

   Also, as if just locking him up wasn’t good enough for Alastair, _The Demon_ ’s captain apparently had not been lying about the rack. Dean was wearing nothing but his pants, arms spread wide and uncomfortably bound to wooden beams. Clapped in irons, with his bare torso on display. It wasn’t that Dean wasn’t comfortable with nudity—frankly, he couldn’t give a crap—but he knew this could hardly be a good sign. His longsword, of course, was gone, undoubtedly now in the hands of some filthy pirate, and the dirk he’d been hiding in his boots would have been taken, too, since he was no longer wearing them.

   “I was wondering when you’d come to.”

   He thought, idly, that he should have been expecting Alastair to be there, even though it seemed wasteful for a captain to spend his time outside a prisoner’s cell just to be there the moment he woke up. “Guy’s gotta catch a break somehow.”

   Alastair apparently had no reply to that. He wasn’t a man of many words unless used to instill fear in others. What he did have was a knife, looking sharp, if a little rusty, which he was casually playing with for the sake of bringing it to Dean’s attention. Dean tried not to look at it.

   “You know,” Alastair said, his eyes gleaming as he finally stepped inside the cell and closed the door behind him, “I’ve been waiting for this moment to come. The notorious Dean Winchester, spread out all nice and pretty for me.”

   “C _aptain_ Dean Winchester,” Dean growled, because he had to retain his dignity somehow.

   “You say? I don’t see your ship anywhere.” He was amused, and it was that tone, more than the words, that irked Dean. The unspoken threat of that knife getting pressed into his body soon didn’t help. All he had were words, and pirates didn’t care for those. Not that Dean was very good with them anyway, but he could hurl out threats and snarks like the best of them.

   He settled on glaring at Alastair’s face for now.

   The man stepped closer to Dean, uncomfortably so, the point of the knife ticking his collarbone. “I don’t think you’ll see your ship ever again,” he said quietly. “You’re far too pretty to let go.”

   Dean had a very uncomfortable vision of himself drifting ashore, almost unrecognizable in death like all those other bodies had been. He swallowed down the bile rising up his throat. Instead he asked, “What’d you do to my crew?” Because as afraid as he was of the answer, he had to know.

   “Relax, Winchester, your crew was alive and well when we left them marooned.” He put more pressure behind the knife now, drawing the first drops of blood from Dean’s chest. “They’ll last a few more days before they give in to their more… primal urges. Humans do the most awful things to survive, did you know?”

   Dean was wise enough not to point out the irony there.

   He’d heard stories before, of entire crews having been left on a deserted island, in tropical heat without any food or, more importantly, anything to lessen their thirst but a few bottles of rum. The stories usually ended in delirium, cannibalism, and death, and he didn’t want to imagine any of that happening to his friends. Damn, Sam had been talking about getting an apprenticeship and learning a craft again lately, and he’d promised Jo’s mother he’d keep an eye on her daughter before Ellen, afflicted with scurvy, had succumbed to death in her bunk. And he didn’t even know if they’d survived the fight on deck in the first place.

   He clenched his jaw and tried not to show where his brain was going.

   “Really, it’s not them you should be worrying about.” The knife left a trail from his right collarbone to his left, dipping down in the middle of his chest to make a v-shape. It stung a little, but it wasn’t deep enough to really hurt yet. “You should focus on the present. I did promise to teach you, after all. See, first thing you should remember, you always start shallowly, just breaking the skin.” Alastair smirked at him, and Dean realized then that this was what the man had meant by mentoring him. “Start where it hurts the least, too, where you can’t accidentally cut anything vital. You don’t want your subject to black out and die when you’ve just gotten started.”

   Dean clenched his eyes shut in an attempt to control his anger. It resulted only in Alastair adding more pressure to the point at his left shoulder where the knife had been resting. The sting was so sudden Dean’s eyes flew open without his consent.

   “Pay attention, Dean, I’m trying to teach you something.”

   He let out a pained grunt he couldn’t seem to keep in.

   “Better,” said Alastair.

   It continued like that for a long time, Alastair explaining his reasoning and technique behind every movement. “Don’t inflict any wounds that can’t heal,” he said at some point, and it was then that it really got through to Dean that he was in for the long run. _Damage them, but if you want to keep ‘em, don’t damage ‘em too much._

   The worst, perhaps, was Alastair giving him no chance to zone out. Dean had gotten through pain before—he’d been on a pirate ship for most of his life, of course he had—but he’d been able to let his mind drift. And most of the time, he’d had rum.

   But he could deal with this. He was Dean Winchester, and his dad had taught him better than to give in so easily.

   He glared.

   Alastair smirked, showing off his yellow teeth. His face was far too close and his breath smelled of things Dean would rather not identify, but Dean pretended not to notice. His upper body felt like there were needles sticking out of his skin everywhere, but he pretended not to notice that, either.

   “Ah,” said his tormenter, “a tough one. I like that.” He wiped the blade on Dean’s own pants as he said, “Well, I think that’s been enough for now, don’t you?”

   Dean wasn’t sure whether he should answer or not, so he settled on carefully schooling his face into a neutral expression. This couldn’t be everything Alastair had in store for him, could it? If the captain’s reputation was anything to go by, he was supposed to be the most vicious pirate of all, a skilled torturer. And yet he hadn’t even elicited a groan from Dean.

   “Don’t worry, pretty boy. I will be back.”

   “Joy,” Dean said, because for some reason he always needed to have the last word.

   “Yes,” said Alastair thoughtfully. “I believe it will be.”

   He left without taking Dean down from the rack, which didn’t come as a surprise but irritated Dean anyway. Despite the position, he could actually feel his muscles relax once Alastair was out of sight. He hadn’t been aware he’d been straining them.

   The lack of something to focus on made him aware of his throbbing skin, so instead he finally took in the cell they’d put him in properly for the first time. As previously established, it was dark and musty, which was hardly unexpected. Now that his eyes were more used to the lack of light, however, Dean could see that it wasn’t particularly big, but at least he wasn’t sharing a cell with filthy and insane other captives. In fact, he could barely even see anything outside his cell, as he was closed in by wooden partitions on three sides—all but the one facing him, which consisted of the kind of thick rusty bars Dean had seen before. Impenetrable. Or so they said.

   He’d have to test that theory.

   Fairly high in the partition to Dean’s left, there was a hole. It wasn’t big—in fact, it kinda looked like someone had tried to tear the wall down with something very heavy, only to give up after one good hit. Dean wondered what was on the other side. It was just above eye level for him, and all he could see from his angle was more darkness.

   He strained his neck like that would make a difference. It didn’t.

   Worse, there really wasn’t anything more to see. He’d half expected the floor and walls to be caked with grime, like he had imagined the entire ship before he’d set foot on it. But like the rest of the ship, the walls were bare. He’d imagined it to differ from _The Impala_ in some fundamental way, but it was just a ship. A frigate, slightly smaller than Dean’s own ship, but no more frightening in itself.

   He’d always wondered why people were afraid of ships when it was really the humans manning them they should be running in fear of. He’d been the same, long ago, before his dad had come and taught him all he needed to understand to survive a life at sea. John had told Dean never to be afraid of ships, because any ship in itself was harmless. It was the humans that were in charge of it that gave it a soul. But attributing the terrifying features to an inanimate object allowed people to ignore the fact that everyone, even them, possessed at least a little bloodlust.

   Dean hadn’t understood at the time, but he did now.

   His arms were starting to hurt from the uncomfortable position in which he was bound. It brought his attention back to his hurting body instead. He tried to somehow move his arms and groaned.

   Fantastic.

   He closed his eyes and leaned back his head.

 

   The sounds of someone descending to the lower deck were what made him perk up again. He wasn’t entirely sure whether he’d managed to catch any sleep, but his body hurt less even though his joints were stiffer now from the position his body was forced to maintain, so he guessed that meant he had.

   “Got some food for you pretty boys here,” a guy Dean hadn’t seen yet sing-songed. He looked almost more disgusting than Alastair, all greasy hair and fingers and black teeth. Dean wondered for a moment at what point someone would start caring more about inflicting pain to others than taking enough care of themselves that they could at least tear off their food properly.

   Something smelled suspiciously like fish, too. Dean tried not to dwell on that.

   Instead—and he blamed it on the blow his head had received earlier that he realized this so late—he wondered how many more people were down here. The man had used a plural, and it made Dean uncomfortable. It could easily be his own crew the guy was talking to. Alastair had said they’d dropped them off, but he was a pirate, and pirates lie.

   The guy was now entering Dean’s cell, smirking at his bonds. “Open up,” he said in a voice as greasy as his hair. Dean considered ignoring him for a moment, to not give the pirate the pleasure of humiliating Dean, but he had the nasty suspicion that he had only one chance to get food and this was it.

   With a healthy dose of distaste, he opened his mouth.

   A chuck of hardtack was stuffed between his teeth. His bonds were loosened slightly, giving him a little more moving space for his arms. He just hoped it’d be enough to feed himself properly.

   It left the pirate visibly amused as he left again, keeping his eyes on Dean not to make sure he wouldn’t do anything unwarranted (‘cause what could he possibly do like this?) but to make the humiliation last a little longer.

   When he was fairly sure he’d heard footsteps ascending the steps, he turned his head and tried to somehow grab the hardtack with his right hand. It was a strain, but manageable. It wasn’t going to be comfortable, but it was the best he could do.

   But first—

   “Hey,” he called out hoarsely. “Anybody there?”

   There had to be. There was no response, but frankly he wasn’t quite sure if he would’ve answered someone’s random call either, so that meant nothing.

   “Jo?” God, he hoped Jo wasn’t here. He didn’t want to think about the things Alastair could do to his adopted sister. “Sammy?” He asked both these names softly, as to not alert any enemy pirates on names they should remember. He wouldn’t be able to bear it if they used them against him.

   Still no answer. Well, at least it really wasn’t them. That should be a relief.

   It was, but he was also somehow disappointed, because even if there was someone else there, he was still alone.

   He focused on how to go about eating his sea biscuit instead. They hadn’t given him any water, and the stuff was near inedible without it. He was gonna have to break it into tiny pieces somehow, even without being able to bring his hands together.

   This was going to take a while.

   It went on like that for what Dean assumed were several days, although he’d lost track of time quite early on. He grit his teeth and endured Alastair’s ministrations, his body now in several places crusted with old blood. He thought he might have lost feeling in his arms from the position they were in, but he couldn’t be sure because his torso was stinging enough that his mind might simply be occupied with that part of his body. He didn’t try again to find out if someone else was locked up here as well, although he was quite sure there was. Each time someone came down to bring food, they disappeared past Dean’s cell for a short while and always with less left than they’d passed by with. But if they didn’t want to talk to him, then Dean wouldn’t be desperate enough to beg them for it.

   Although he wanted to. Damn, he wanted to. Being alone with his thoughts was positively driving him crazy.

   He never received water, or any other liquid, along with his food, leaving his throat dry and raw after eating the hard sea biscuit until Alastair seemed fit to visit him again. The captain usually let Dean have a mouthful of what seemed to be clean water before starting that day’s session. He said it was to oil Dean’s throat so he would scream more prettily.

   It was a cruel way of ensuring Dean almost looked forward to Alastair’s visits at times, when his throat was dry from the food or burning from the screaming, or when he got dizzy and his head was bursting from dehydration. It was relief from one torture to endure another, to the point where he was sure it would never end.

   At some point, however, Alastair apparently decided to up his game. He didn’t visit Dean for a while, which was nerve-wracking as it, and when he did, it was as if all those days had accumulated and he had to make up for lost time.

   Dean was woken up by freezing water being poured over his head, making goose bumps erupt over his entire body and trickling into yesterday’s open wounds, burning like heated iron. He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. Alastair liked it when he screamed. Dean tried to make as little sound as possible after finding that out. Of course, that only spurred Alastair on more to find new and inventive ways to force out sounds of pain anyway.

   Dean didn’t particularly care. If anything, he wasn’t going to let Alastair have what he wanted too easily.

   “Morning, Dean.”

   He grit his teeth.

   Alastair clicked his tongue annoyingly. “You never learn.”

   No, Dean guessed he didn’t. And he’d know it, too.

   This marked the first time that Dean actually screamed, as the point of Alastair’s knife dug into his shoulder, far deeper than the past times’ shallow cuts just slicing open his skin. It kinda felt like the time he’d had a bullet graze him there, except slower. Much, much slower.

   “You know,” Alastair said nonchalantly, as if he were talking about the weather, “You’re even prettier when you scream.”

   Dean clenched his jaw and tried to stop his vocal chords from letting out another sound, but found that it only resulted in his eyes tearing up with the effort of it. He wasn’t sure which was worse, with the way Alastair looked at him like he was some sort of prey to toy with. (Dean supposed that was exactly what he was.)

   The blade was pulled out of his shoulder and was now being traced along Dean’s jawline, leaving a thin trace of his own blood on his face. He tried to turn away from it, but Alastair grabbed his chin and held him still, looking into his eyes with a feral grin that scared Dean more than the knife did. He could still hear his father’s voice in the back of his head. _Even the deadliest objects must be handled by men in order to kill_.

   But this wasn’t a grin that promised death. It promised life, and it terrified Dean, because life could be endless. And who knew what Alastair would resort to once he got bored with this slow torture?

   “You make a good toy, Winchester,” the pirate captain said from too close to Dean’s ear. Dean tried not to shudder as he felt the man’s tongue on his face where the bloodied knife had been mere seconds ago. “I have great plans for you, you know.”

   Dean clenched his jaw.

   “Great plans,” Alastair repeated as he pulled himself away, shooting Dean one last smirk before leaving for the day. Dean could only hold himself in check until Alastair was out of sight before he felt bile rising up his throat and gagged.

   All was silent except from Dean’s ragged breathing for a while.

   Then—

   “Who’s Sammy?”

   Had he not been tied down, Dean might have jumped in shock. “What?” he rasped.

   “That first time, you called for Joe and Sammy,” answered the gravelly voice, which made Dean assume he hadn’t just imagined it.

   Part of him wanted to answer, the part that needed a friendly voice in this wrecked situation. (That part could probably also be satisfied by a year of dreamless sleep. Whenever Dean fell asleep here, his sleep was fitful and he woke up almost more exhausted than he’d been before.)

   The other part of him, however, appeared to be stronger, because when the words had finally found their way to his mouth they’d ended up being, “What the hell?” How dare this guy suddenly bring up his crew again on enemy territory? How dare he assume that Dean now suddenly wanted to talk to him, after days of listening to Dean’s screams and ignoring them? “That was days ago.”

   “You…” The voice sounded hesitant. “You call out to them sometimes in your sleep.”

   Dean growled. That was private.

   “I apologize. I suppose that was inappropriate.”

   “Damn right it was.” He wondered if the guy was another prisoner or one of Alastair’s guys trying to torture him mentally now as well as physically. He didn’t think any of Alastair’s crew to be smart enough, but then one never knew.

   He should never have called out those names in the first place.

   “Are you alright?” the voice asked tentatively.

   “Yeah,” Dean said curtly.

   “Very well.” It sounded a bit defeated. Dean ignored this. Whoever it was, they’d had their chance. He was showing enough weakness as it was without making friends with strange, disembodied voices as well.

   He ignored the source of the voice after that, and if he paid a little more attention than usual to the pirate bringing them their food, no one had to know.

   But the voice stayed with him, the confirmation that he wasn’t alone here both a blessing and a curse. He didn’t want anyone else to have to go through this, nor did he want anyone knowing exactly what ‘this’ was—but the mere thought that there was someone else here, someone who wasn’t the enemy (or at least, he assumed), was a comforting one.

   As if it’d make any difference.

   Only apparently Dean was a weakling, because it did.

   “Dean?”

   He grit his teeth and ignored the voice. The guy—whoever it was—hadn’t spoken up again since the first time (which admittedly wasn’t very long ago), until now, after a particularly nasty session with Alastair that Dean would prefer never to repeat. He didn’t want to hear that voice right now. He didn’t want anything.

   “I apologize for bringing up the names of your loved ones out of the blue. It was uncalled for. I merely wanted to know if you were alright.”

   Dean was pretty sure the guy had to know he was far from alright, because it was getting harder to keep quiet. He still didn’t reply. He didn’t even really know why he was so bitter with the guy—by this point, he was convinced that at least Alastair hadn’t lied about what he’d done with _The Impala_ ’s crew, or they would’ve used them against Dean by now. Maybe it was because he knew better than to trust anyone on a ship that wasn’t his own.

   “You should not be drifting off,” the voice said, almost concerned.

   Dean very nearly told him to shut up, but thought better of it. “Yeah? Then give me something to concentrate on, huh?”

   “I don’t understand.”

   He laughed. It was humourless. “Wha’s your name?”

   It was quiet for a few short moments, like the guy was trying to figure out whether it was such a great idea to just give his name. But he knew Dean’s, so it was only fair, Dean figured.

   “Castiel.”

   “Cas-whatnow?” Dean asked disbelievingly, somehow much clearer in his surprise than he’d sounded before. “What, that French or somethin’?”

   _Cas-tee-el_ didn’t deem that worthy of a reply.

   “Okay,” Dean said, feeling himself drift off anyway. “Okay.”

   This time when he woke up, he was unchained for the first time since he arrived in this cell, which was a pleasant surprise. In fact, for a moment Dean thought it was also incredibly stupid of Alastair’s. That was, until he realised that he’d been held up in the same position for so long that his body was now refusing to listen to his brain’s commands.

   He groaned.

   He tried moving his right arm into a more comfortable position, but it just resulted in a stab of pain, so he quickly gave up on it again.

   Distantly, he thought he heard someone singing, but he figured that was probably a hallucination. His mum used to sing for him, way back when Dean was little and feeling ill. John would say it’d make him weak, but Dean had liked it.

   Maybe he was dying after all.

   “…back as a child.”

   “What are you doing?” Dean asked, because he knew that voice. If he heard that voice, he was not dead. The words came out less threatening than they were supposed to.

   “You seemed… unresponsive. I imagined sensory input to be a possible solution.”

   “…What?”

   “Dean,” the voice said with a sigh. “You were unconscious. The only thing I could think of was speaking to you.”

   “Oh,” said Dean, because that was all he could come up with. “Okay.” He didn’t have the energy to argue, and if the guy felt better if he talked about himself, then sure.

   “Okay?”

   “Yeah.”

   “I need you to be more elaborate than that. Talk to me.”

   But Dean wasn’t about to start swapping stories and become best buddies, here. If the guy behind the voice wanted to share his life’s stories to some random pirate, he could do as he pleased. That didn’t mean Dean would be returning the favour. “I have nothing to tell.”

   He realized he was still lying on the ground and finally managed to hoist himself up into a sitting position, back against the wall. The rack was still looming threateningly in the middle of the room. Dean couldn’t muster up an emotion as he looked at it.

   He’d been stuck on that thing for God knew how long, and yet somehow he was still breathing. He wished he wasn’t. Even if he’d been released from the thing, he knew Alastair had to be planning more, and it couldn’t be good if he had the confidence to release Dean of his bonds.

   Or most of them, anyway—his wrists had been roped together at some point between now and when he’d last been awake. That was something he could live with. He’d gotten out of his fair share of bonds before.

   “You talk to me if you want conversation so badly,” Dean finally sniped. “Why’re you here, anyway? Where’s your ship?”

   The question only reminded him of _The Impala_. She was a beautiful beast, a proud galleon as dark as the night sea. She was his most prized possession, and the realization that he had no idea what had happened to her hit him like a brick.

   He tried to shrug it off by focusing his attention back on Castiel, who was saying something again.

   “I do not own a ship.”

   “You’re not a captain?” This was strange, because pirate captains were generally interested only in other pirate captains. Dean would know. What was the use of bringing in a random crew member, anyway? He could be the bloody errand boy—someone who had no information, no prestige, and frankly, someone for whom most pirates wouldn’t even come back. “I’ll roll with it. What do you do?”

   “I fight.”

   “Cool,” Dean said, a little sheepishly. A crew member on a pirate ship then after all, or maybe even the Royal Navy—although Dean somehow couldn’t imagine that.

   “I imagine you are a captain,” Castiel said, like he didn’t know the answer yet.

   “Aye,” he said, and before he knew it—as much as he’d told himself he wouldn’t say a word about anything, anything at all—he was talking about _The Impala_. Nothing the stories didn’t mention; but her grace and her beauty, and her reputation (because Dean, for all intents and purposes, liked to boast).

   He didn’t stop for what felt like a long time, but when he did, it was sudden. “I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

   Instead of answering, Castiel’s low voice said, “I find it very intriguing. You love your ship very much.” It was almost a question.

   “She was my dad’s,” Dean said, like that was sufficient an explanation. But the other man just hummed, and Dean guessed it was.

   “She is yours now.”

   He felt bad about being happy about that. The only reason his beloved ship was his now, was that his father had died. And he’d felt terrible about that, but also somewhat… relieved.

   He’d never say that out loud, though. He felt bad enough a son as it was.

   They got no more chance to talk, ‘cause at that moment their food arrived, and the pirate who brought it was grinning so nastily that Dean didn’t dare speak of anything again. He felt like they knew something, and hadn’t he resolved to keep his mouth shut?

   Castiel didn’t say another word, either, but at some point, Dean heard the singing again. And he recognized the voice this time, though not the language.

   He wondered if he should say something about it, but it was calming, and he decided to pretend he was asleep again instead.

   If Dean thought things would be easier now that he wasn’t chained down any longer, he was sorely mistaken. He wasn’t strong enough to overpower Alastair. He didn’t have the energy. It was all he could do to close his eyes and pretend he was somewhere else, anywhere else, while Alastair and his knife and God-knows-what-else he had brought today tackled places on Dean’s body they hadn’t been able to go before.

   He didn’t scream, not even when the knife followed the line of his backbone. All he managed to do when the knife reached places he didn’t like to linger on was buck away and shake his head, and miraculously, Alastair moved on.

   He wondered for how long.

   “Hey, Cas?” he croaked when Alastair had finally left, not even noticing the nickname until he realized Castiel wasn’t responding. “Castiel?” He let out a deep breath. “Was that—Remember when we were talking about my ship?”

   “Yes, Dean.”

   “Were you—were you _singing_ , afterwards?”

   “…Yes.” He almost sounded embarrassed.

   Dean wanted to ask him to sing again, but he had no idea how to do it without embarrassing them both. He couldn’t let the subject drop, either. “What about?”

   “Hope.”

   Dean laughed bitterly, because hope wasn’t something he’d possessed a whole lot of even before all of this.

   “I’m sorry.”

   “Wha’ for?”

   “For not being able to help you properly.” He sounded frustrated with himself. “Dean, is there anything I can do?”

   “I dunno,” mumbled Dean, mind becoming lighter by the minute. “You could sing some more.”

   “About hope?”

   “Yeah.” He was sinking away into that peaceful darkness. “Yeah, ‘bout hope.”

   Dean considered lunging forward as Alastair pressed his knife in close to his heart. Maybe if he did it fast enough, he’d actually manage.

   In the back of his mind, he could almost hear his father shouting at him for wanting to give up and Sammy begging him not to. But they were both dead, weren’t they?

   At some point, Dean didn’t even realize where the knife was anymore, or whether it was still on his body at all. He was lost in time and his own head, and he barely even noticed Alastair leaving.

    “ _Dean_ ,” a gravelly voice said, sounding slightly familiar. “Dean, please, listen to me. Speak to me. _Do not fall asleep._ ”

   He wanted to snap at the voice. Who the hell did the guy think he was for commanding him like that? Instead, he pried an eye open in curiosity.

   From the hole in the wall, he could see an unruly mob of black hair and a deep frown. It was almost sad that the first time he saw any aspect of Castiel was when he was too hurt to focus on it.

   “You were drifting off. I could not let you.”

   “’Course you can.” His head throbbed. His entire body did. All he really wanted was to drift off and not feel it for a while. “You should,” he murmured, not sure if the other man could even hear him.

   “ _Do not_ close your eyes again!” Castiel snapped as Dean’s eyes were drifting closed. Then, more gently, “Dean, I have appreciated our conversations in the time we have been here. Talk to me now. Stay with me.”

   “I don’t—”

   “Tell me how your father acquired his ship.”

   John had stolen it, of course. Dean didn’t know any of the details, but he knew the general story.

   Ironically, John had been part of the Royal Navy, so his face had hardly been a commodity in the harbour. He’d left Dean and baby Sam with Ellen Harvelle, who ran a skeevy bar but at least had a fairly steady home to raise kids in, and went off. Bobby Singer and Ellen’s husband Bill had been with him, though how they’d gotten onto a ship unnoticed, Dean didn’t know. All he knew was the anticlimactic ending of the story which involved taking out the guards without killing them and literally just taking off.

   He’d come back for Dean some years later, rendered almost unrecognizable by grief and vengeance and the rough life at sea.

   Dean, for his part, had returned to the Harvelles after John died, bearing the news of Bill’s passing some years previous as well as his father’s. He’d come to see Sam, his baby brother, now all gangly limbs and almost old enough to go out and learn a craft. Until he heard of John’s death, telling Dean he wasn’t going to let his big brother get back on those infinite waters alone.

   And that’s how Dean gained three new members to his crew. Ellen’s determination to keep an eye out for them outweighed her wish for Jo to get married and live a long life on land. (Much to Jo’s relief, it must be said, as Jo had been more interested in sword fighting than dresses all along.) It may have also had something to do with Jo’s determination to go with the Winchesters.

   “Isn’t it uncommon to have women on a ship?” Cas asked.

   “Yeah, ‘cause people are stupid and think it’s bad luck. As if the sea cares. Besides, it comes in way useful when mermaids come around. Got someone to keep on going.”

   The guy was quiet at that, but Dean thought the frown had eased a little.

   “Speaking of mermaids,” Castiel said all of a sudden, sounding almost excited, “you might want to cover your ears.”

   He wasn’t sure why he trusted the guy, ‘cause there was no way to look outside from here and Dean didn’t hear anything, but he brought up his hands anyway. Maybe it was because he was so exhausted he’d do anything he was told simply because he didn’t have the spirit to contradict it. Either there was nothing out there and he’d look ridiculous, or there was and he’d—

   What? Stand a chance? Mermaids didn’t care who was on a ship. Mermaids didn’t make distinctions between good and evil, prisoners or captains or anyone in between. And even if humans stood a chance against mermaids, he couldn’t fight. It’d be a miracle if he could even run.

   He heard them, then, clamping his hands tighter around his ears, know that it’d make no difference. He had nowhere to go.

   The filthy pirate who’d gotten them their food last time was scurrying by Dean’s cell, not even sparing him a glance. Even through his hands, he could hear the clang of keys against a lock and the guy barking something. Nothing. Then a loud thump. Dean wished he could see what was going on, why they cared about a prisoner when their ship was being attacked by mermaids.

   He didn’t get much chance to wonder. Before he knew it, there was a stark naked guy in his cell, a little wobbly on his feet but smiling at him nonetheless. His blue eyes were staring into Dean’s and he knew he had no time for it, but he couldn’t help it—he stared back.

   Castiel was lean and fairly tall, and holding out his hand for Dean to grab. He wasn’t sure, but he thought he heard Castiel’s voice over the singing, “Would you perhaps like to get out of here?”

   Dean looked up in disbelief, but didn’t answer. Castiel didn’t wait for him to do so. He crouched down, slung an arm around Dean and hoisted him up.

   Ow.

   “Cas, man,” Dean said as they neared the steps, groaning a little in pain. “This is gonna take me way too long. I ain’t gonna make it anyway.”

   Castiel squinted his eyes, but didn’t let go of Dean. He dragged him towards the steps instead. “I will get you off this ship, Dean Winchester, or so the Nereids help me.”

   Dean thought that was kind of a weird thing to say, but he was being dragged up by someone who apparently was stronger than he looked, and he needed all his concentration not to fall back down the stairs. And all the while all he could think was that this was ridiculous; they were climbing up only to be taken down into the sea by these creatures once they reached the upper deck.

   At least he’d spend his last moments as a free man, he could say that much.

   The main deck was complete chaos. The ship had started rocking now, a sign that the mermaids were attempting to turn the entire thing over so that those who’d managed to stay in their right mind would end up among them anyway. Some idiots had bound themselves to the mast in hopes that it would stop them from jumping, but most of them were trying to get things done without taking their hands off their ears.

   And then there was Alastair.

   Dean didn’t get the time to think. All he knew was that he saw the flash of a sword behind Castiel and grabbed the dark haired man’s shoulders, dragging him behind Dean in one swift move. Dean knew the only reason his body was still upright was the adrenaline. He wasn’t going to make it, even if they did find a way to escape the mermaids. So he did something he’d never normally do.

   He barrelled straight into Alastair.

   The captain dropped his sword in shock, but it didn’t matter that they were both unarmed now. Dean was weakened, and Alastair was somehow not influenced by the mermaids’ songs. (A voice in the back of Dean’s head said that neither was he, now that he’d taken his hands off his ears, but he was hurt and dying and far from caring about soft female bodies for once in his life, so perhaps that was simply the reason he hadn’t gone completely crazy yet.)

   “Dean,” the heavy voice of Castiel sounded over the singing and the screaming around them, sliding him Alastair’s sword. Dean didn’t hesitate for a second.

   He slashed the man’s neck with his own weapon.

   Alastair’s eyes widened, and it looked almost amusing. He opened his mouth to spit something nasty at Dean, but rather than words, it was blood coming from between his lips, bubbling up in the corners of the captain’s mouth. And perhaps Dean had given the guy the easy way out by killing him swiftly rather than letting the mermaids have him, but it was still a good feeling, getting to finish what he’d originally set out to do on this ship, getting to put an end to the guy who’d cost him so much.

   He didn’t get to bask in it for long. Castiel was tugging at his arm, forcing him upright even though the adrenaline was leaving Dean’s body and it was becoming weaker by the second. Those bright eyes were staring straight into his.

   “When I say jump, we jump.”

   That was it, then. The guy had been running around without covering his ears all this time, and now he was finally done for. And the worst part was, Dean would do it. He’d rather jump into the mermaids’ hands with this guy than stay on an enemy ship that would go down by mermaids’ doing in a short while anyway.

   “Okay.”

   That smile again. A mouth covering his. He could do that. If these were the last moments of his life, considering the circumstances, they weren’t so bad.

   The lips, and the arms around him, too, only left for long enough to say “Jump”. And then they were tumbling downward, into more salty water than Dean cared for.

   It burned so much he blacked out right away.

 


	3. Down by the Seaside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I must kiss you again,” Cas finally stated.  
> A soft breeze that had nothing on the wind on the open sea blew through Dean’s hair. He noticed because his brain was trying to focus on anything but the naked man sitting next to him.

   Dean woke up on a sandy beach, the sun burning too bright for his eyes. His joints felt stiff and he wouldn’t be surprised to find his face sunburned, but with these discomforts came the realization that he was alive. He was pretty sure that counted as some kind of miracle; no one had ever even been rumoured to have survived a mermaid attack. And yet here he was, looking for all the world like he’d just washed ashore unharmed. Or relatively unharmed, in any case.

   He thought of Castiel, and hoped at least the other man had survived as well. Like it or not, he wouldn’t have gotten off that ship without him.

   He slowly tried opening his eyes, squinting through his eyelashes and waiting for the spots and bright colours to cease before opening his eyes fully and repeating the process. When his eyes finally seemed to have gotten more used to the sun, he slowly forced himself upright. His arms were shaking with the strain of it. Not so unharmed as he’d hoped for, then. He wasn’t surprised, after all that time on Alastair’s ship.

   He finally looked around properly, orienting himself. The beach looked deserted, and so did the sea for as far as Dean could see. The island itself beyond the beach consisted of a lot of green that Dean wasn’t too keen on. Last time they’d entered an unknown forest, the island had been inhabited by cannibals and they’d almost lost Bobby. He didn’t even remember what they’d gotten into that forest for.

   To get food, maybe.

   The unwelcome thought came to him that he may somehow have survived Alastair _and_ a mermaid attack, but if he didn’t find a way off this island, he was gonna die of hunger and dehydration. He cursed, gladly finding his voice still working properly, albeit a little painful in his throat. He didn’t have a reputation for nothing—somehow he was gonna have to get away from here.

   “You’re awake.”

   He whipped his head around so fast he almost pulled a muscle. “Castiel?”

   “Yes.”

   The man was still naked, and Dean tried his hardest not to look. Castiel didn’t seem to feel awkward or exposed by his nudity at all, which seemed unbelievable to Dean because even if he wasn’t insecure about it himself, it always tended to make him feel more vulnerable because he lacked anything to fight with but his hands. But Castiel comfortably walked towards him and crouched down, and Dean was on the verge of crawling out of his reach when he said, “You have been healing well.”

   And he had. His wounds had all closed, even if they were still raw and red and far from healed yet. It was still a great improvement from what it had been. He wanted to ask how long they’d been here, or how they’d even gotten here in the first place, but the words got lost on the way to his mouth and what he blurted out was, “What’re you doing here?”

   “Ensuring you are not dying.”

   Dean lazily blinked up at the man, trying to process the implications of those words. “Why?” he eventually settled on asking. He’d come to care for Castiel’s soothing voice while at Alastair’s ship; started to look forward to hearing it, even. But that didn’t mean Castiel had to feel the same way. Dean had assumed he didn’t, ‘cause why would someone go through all this bother for him, of all people? Not to mention the fact that people generally didn’t give a crap about pirates, and Dean couldn’t blame them. Pirates didn’t care about people, either.

   Castiel squinted at him. “Because I think you deserve to be saved.”

   Dean laughed, but there was no humour in it. “That makes you the only one.” It didn’t answer his question, though. Dean wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying here, but Castiel had apparently been checking up on him when he should have been trying to get off this island. “You have anyone to get back to?” It was probably a stupid question, but there was too much he needed to know and he wasn’t sure where to start. And then there was the most burning question of them all: “How did we survive, anyway?”

   “We have been… fortunate,” Castiel said, which didn’t explain anything.

   Dean waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Dean sighed and said, “You happen to have anything to eat, or should I venture into the forest before I starve?”

   It got him a glare and a piece of fruit he didn’t recognize but put his teeth in right away nevertheless, not even caring about not knowing if it could be poisonous. His stomach was hurting and telling him any food was good food, and Dean listened to it, no longer being able to ignore the hunger now that he had something edible in his hands.

    The taste was rich and, much to Dean’s delight, it was full of juice wetting his lips and relieving his throat. “Where’d you get that?”

   “I ventured into the forest,” Castiel deadpanned.

   “Fine, you got me.” He swallowed the last bite of the fruit, knowing that should probably be all for a while because his stomach was entirely confused. “So you never told me how you’d ended up on that ship?” He had assumed Castiel was another captain, but Castiel had debunked that idea fairly early on. Alastair had never said much to him, and no one had ever seemed to enter Castiel’s cell except for the food guy.

   “Alastair enjoys… collecting things. For a while, usually.” Castiel looked at him with such an intensity it made Dean uncomfortable. He looked down at himself, the endless cuts that were going to become very unflattering scars, and suddenly he wanted to hide. A blouse, an undershirt. Anything to disguise the wounds that were inflicted in such a shameful way.

   Which reminded him of something.

   “You kissed me.”

   It wasn’t an accusation—it was a question. It had felt purposeful, and Dean was glad for it. Alastair may never have done that particular thing, but he’d come near enough. Now that he could think clearly again, Dean shivered at the mere thought of any physical contact.

   “Yes,” said Castiel.

   “Care to explain?”

   “Not yet.” Not exactly the response Dean had been hoping for. “Do you trust me?”

   _Did_ he trust Castiel? Sure, the guy had saved him from what should’ve been an impossible situation, but the question remained how he’d managed it. Dean thought the other man probably deserved his trust after getting him out while barely knowing him, but…

   But.

   Dean had trust issues. He was a pirate; of course he did. He still settled on, “I think so.”

   “I suppose that will have to do.”

   “Well, if you’re not gonna explain anything, at least tell me you got a plan.”

   Castiel frowned, like he hadn’t even considered that they might need something as trivial as a plan. “We could build a boat,” he suggested.

   Dean stared at him.

   “A small boat,” Castiel said, as though that somehow made it a better idea.

   There was a lot Dean could say to that, ranging from “how the hell” to “and then what”. He didn’t end up using any of those options. He ended up falling over in the sand.

   “You should be out of the sun.” The other man was already tugging at Dean’s shoulders, urging him to get up. He wanted to snap that he could do it just fine by himself, that he didn’t need the help of some naked guy—and damn, he shouldn’t have thought of that—to move a few meters, but he couldn’t, and he did.

   Reluctantly, he let Castiel help him up off the ground. He clenched his jaw to keep from groaning as all his wounds and sore muscles seemed to come alive at the same time, screaming at him for having the audacity to move. Shuffling slowly toward the treeline, he started mumbling something about how he _could_ do it without any help, even though he would’ve never gotten up without help and it was just his hurt pride talking.

   Surprisingly, he was let go of after that. Not aggressively, but carefully, as though Castiel couldn’t decide whether he should listen to Dean or not. He wasn’t sure why he had been expecting otherwise.

   He didn’t look up again until he’d finally struggled to a patch of beach still covered in shadow, and when he did, it was to see Castiel staring intently at him.

   “What?”

   “You are not well.”

   “I’m peachy.”

   Castiel frowned. “I need you to let me look at your wounds.”

   “No.”

   “Dean—”

   “ _No_.”

   It wasn’t until then that he realized it wasn’t about not wanting to admit he needed someone’s help. It was about something he didn’t even want to admit to himself. Cas was naked, goddammit, he couldn’t possibly be hiding a knife anywhere—but he was _naked_.

   Castiel looked at him in a way that said ‘ _I wouldn’t hurt you_ ’, but he didn’t say it out loud, and Dean was grateful for that. He already knew that. He didn’t need to be told such things like he was a frightened child.

   He hated himself enough for this.

   As Castiel left to do who knows what, Dean did at least check his injuries himself. They’d all closed, which was a miracle in itself, but the places where Alastair had pressed the tip of his knife into Dean’s flesh were still hurting. When he closed his eyes, he could imagine the knife still being there, so he tried not to.

   He pretended not to notice when Castiel’s singing once again reached his ears, but it was a welcome surprise.

   “So where’d you come from?”

   “The sea.”          

   Stupid question. Lots of them didn’t care for the places they’d been born, only cared for the untidy waters and the ships that allowed them to cross those. Dean should know that, because he was the same.

   He coughed.

   “How’s that boat plan coming on?”

   Castiel looked at him like he was insane. “You need rest.”

   Dean didn’t like to admit this, but he did. Yet he also needed to move, needed to be doing something. He needed physical stuff to do just so he could focus entirely on that and rid his thoughts of Alastair. “How far is it to land?” he asked stubbornly.

   “I could get us there in two days.” Castiel’s tone was disapproving. Dean could hardly blame him. You save a guy from an impossible situation, and in response said guy does exactly the opposite of what’s good for him.

   “Okay, so how do we start?”

   “Dean—”

   “Dammit, Cas, at least let me try!” He actually flinched as those words left his mouth. He wasn’t a petulant child, for Christ’s sake.

   Castiel frowned a little at the nickname and sighed. “Fine. But you will eat first, and you _will_ stop when it gets to be too much for you.”

   Dean hummed in agreement, even though he knew he was going to go on until he dropped—literally. Hey, at least that way it wasn’t going to take him ages to fall asleep.

   Cas brought fish, which they cooked, and then let Dean struggle to get up on his own for the first time since they got to this island. Dean wasn’t sure whether Castiel was doing it to show Dean he was still too weak, or to not bother trying when Dean would shrug him off anyway, but he was grateful for it. “Okay,” he said when he finally stood on wobbly feet, “where to?”

   The dark-haired man led them to a place near the woods only a short walk away from where Dean had been lying. It turned out Castiel had been working on making weapons here, which only made Dean happier that he’d stuck with him rather than started demanding explanations. The weapons were made of exceptionally sharp stones and shells bound to thick sticks, hardly as professional as Dean’s sword—damn, he missed his sword—but, he guessed, better than nothing. There were also some not bound to wooden sticks, whether because Castiel hadn’t gotten to that yet or because they had a different purpose, Dean didn’t know.

   In spite of the crude materials used, the weapons appeared to be expertly fashioned, and Castiel wielded them with effortless grace. They looked somehow lethal in Castiel’s hands. He looked like he’d used similar ones before.

   Dean wanted to ask, but figured it’d probably be better if he kept his mouth shut for once. “Okay,” he said. “What’re we going to do with these?”

   “We need wood. I imagine we need to chop down a tree.”

   “With these?” Dean asked disbelievingly. “What—imagine? Have you ever done this before?” He wasn’t sure why he’d assumed the man _had_ done this before—how many deserted islands could he possibly have been on? And yet for some reason, he had.

   “No. I have observed people doing this.”

   “You have observed people doing this,” Dean repeated incredulously. He shook his head. “No, okay.” Before, on Alastair’s ship, he could write off Castiel’s strangeness by attributing it to being surrounded by enemy pirates, but now they weren’t and it was only getting worse.

   Castiel was staring at him again. “Are you sure you are well enough to do this?”

   “’Course I am,” Dean said. He didn’t mention that with every movement of his body he felt the aftermath of Alastair’s ministrations, even though the wounds had almost healed. He didn’t mention the phantom pain, nor the phantom voice taunting him in his head, because if he did, he was going to be forced to talk about it. Dean much preferred not talking about things and burying them as deeply into his mind as possible. And he especially wasn’t going to talk to someone he’d just thought of as crazy.

   “You have given up hope.” Castiel looked frustrated. “You have survived things which many a man would not. You will survive this, too.”

   That wasn’t… He hadn’t given up hope. Or at least, he wasn’t a hundred percent sure he’d die within the next few days anymore. But dammit, he was in pain, he’d lost his ship and his crew, and they had yet to come up with a realistic way to get off this island. Because no matter what Castiel said, even if they managed to build a boat they were probably too far away from any civilization to reach in time.

   “…If it helps…” Castiel said slowly, as if he had to think this through carefully. “Perhaps it would make you feel better to know that your crew is alive.”

   Dean actually perked up at that. “Really?” Then, more suspiciously, “How do you know?”

   “Sources… say a merchant ship picked up some stranded pirates off an island. I do not know what happened to them after that, but they did not starve, as Alastair’s intentions were.”

   He honestly had no reason to believe this was true. For all he knew, Castiel was just making up a story to keep Dean going. Even if it wasn’t, then that meant his friends were probably taken prisoner once they set foot on land. He shuddered at the thought.

   Sam would get them out. If they did get captured, his little brother would come up with some smart plan and the entire crew would get out alive, Dean was sure of it.

   He tried not to think about how he wasn’t sure who ‘the entire crew’ consisted of anymore, after that failed attack on _The Demon_. He tried not to think about how many of his friends he led to their deaths for nothing.

   After all, he was trying to start working on the boat so he didn’t have to think about anything at all.

   “Explain to me again how we’re gonna make this boat.”

 

   It took an hour of Dean being increasingly stubborn before he finally gave in to his body’s demands for rest and sat down in the shadow of the trees, watching Castiel work instead.

   He still had no clue as to how this was gonna work. Worse, he didn’t actually believe it was gonna work at all. But he supposed at least it gave them something to do.

   “You’re gonna get sunburnt working like that, Cas.”

   “What?” Castiel yelled back. Dean wondered if he’d even noticed that the sun had shifted during the time they’d been working and was happily showering its rays on his back now.

   “You should get out of the sun!”

   Castiel came over to the spot where Dean was sitting, a confused look on his face that seemed to be his default expression. “Why?”

   “’Cause, you know, people can’t work in the afternoon sun for too long _without burning their skin off_ ,” Dean said sardonically. Even Cas had to know that. He was a sailor too, right?

   The man seemed to contemplate this for a moment. “Oh,” he said, as if this were news to him. “I see.” He dropped down next to Dean, facing the sea.

   “You should wear some clothes,” Dean told him without looking.

   “I’m making you uncomfortable.”

   “No!”

   Cas raised his eyebrows.

   “Okay, yes,” he amended. “But it’s protection, man.”

   The other man looked at Deans torn pants with a frown, as though just realizing something. “I apologize. I should have thought of that when I laid you on the beach.”

   Dean tried not to think of how weird that sounded. “Yeah,” he said sheepishly, because his shoulders and chest were fairly red and by the feel of it, so was his face. “I mean, it’s cool, man. You saved me an’ all, so that kinda makes up for it, y’know?”

   “I’m glad,” said Cas, smiling. “However, there is nothing here to make clothing of. The island’s fauna consists mainly of birds and reptiles.”

   “You could wear feathers,” Dean said jokingly. “Maybe fashion some wings outta them, too. Get off this island flying.”

   “That would be nice,” Cas said, probably mainly to appease Dean. “But I _will_ get you off this island, Dean, I promised you as much.”

   “You need a sense of humour.”

   “Perhaps so do you.”

   Dean gaped at him. Castiel’s eyes were shining.

   “You made a joke!” He frowned. “Are you suggesting I’m not funny?”

   “Not at all.” Cas smiled.

   Dean actually laughed at that for some reason, a real laugh for the first time in who knew how long. “You’re something else, Cas.”

   “Yes,” Cas said with a kind of half-smile. “I am.”

   “You aren’t healing,” Castiel said two days later when Dean was once again hiding in the shadow, trying to catch his breath from the exertion of working on their tiny little boat. He’d been listening to the sound of waves rolling onto the beach and wishing he were on them instead of here, brushing sand out of uncomfortable places each time he moved.

    “It’s been four days, Cas.”

   By the look on Castiel’s face, it seemed like the man hardly thought that mattered. Hell, Dean himself would’ve expected to at least be able to do something useful again, but he couldn’t and time was his only excuse.

   He wasn’t weak, dammit.

   Cas looked like he was trying to find the words to say something Dean probably wasn’t gonna like. In the background, the sounds of two birds fighting could be heard. They both ignored it.

   “I must kiss you again,” Cas finally stated.

   A soft breeze that had nothing on the wind on the open sea blew through Dean’s hair. He noticed because his brain was trying to focus on anything but the naked man sitting next to him.

   “Y’know,” he finally joked weakly, “when mothers give their babes a kiss to make the hurt go away, it doesn’t _actually_ heal them, right?”

   “I’m aware,” Cas said simply.

   “Well, if you just wanted to kiss me, you could’ve just said so.” He was smirking again, putting up the cocky demeanour that was really his only defence.

   He’d hardly minded when they’d kissed last time, but he’d thought he was gonna die within the same minute, and he’d been kinda out of it anyway.

   “No,” He said when he found Cas looking at him expectantly.

   Castiel looked away, frowning, although not angrily. “You said you trusted me, yes?”

   He’d said he _thought_ so. Dean nodded anyway.

   “I must… show you something.”

   Well, that sounded ominous.

   Castiel stood up and absently wiped some sand off his butt (and Dean totally wasn’t looking, but it was a nice butt, alright?). He’d still not fashioned anything into makeshift clothes for himself. They’d come to the conclusion working was easier in the mornings, anyway.

   “Dean,” he said, “I need you to understand that I do not mean you any harm. I never have.”

   “Uh,” Dean said. “Okay.”

   “Okay,” Cas repeated, nodding. “Follow me.”

   He did. He tried to ignore the hot sand between his toes as Cas led them to the sea, although he did take a moment to relish in the feeling of the cooler water running over his feet when they got there.

   Castiel held up a hand. “Wait here.”

   Dean had no intention whatsoever to go any further, so he happily complied.

   Castiel himself, on the other hand, took a few more steps until he was up to his calves in the water. Just far enough so Dean could still see his feet.

   He wanted to ask what the hell it was that Cas needed to tell him while standing in the sea when he noticed.

   Or, at least, he thought he saw a strange shimmering, and it caught his gaze.

   _It_ was Cas. _It_ was his feet. _It_ was the fact that they didn’t look like regular feet.

   That was it, then. The sun and the pain and the memory of Alastair had finally gotten to him, and he’d gone insane. Or it could just be a trick of the light, but for some reason he thought the first option more likely.

   Cas took another step further into the water, slowly edging towards a low wall of rock from a nearby tide pool. “Dean,” he said in that terribly gravelly voice of his that always sounded like it was barely used. He was looking at Dean with wide eyes, as though he was afraid of his reaction.

   Maybe he wasn’t going crazy. But Cas’s legs couldn’t possibly really turning blue, so maybe he was.

   Dark blue, and shiny, and scaly.

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/KNivWGO.jpg?1)

   He didn’t know why it took him so long to realize what he was looking at. It was probably because he couldn’t, or didn’t want to, believe it. But when he was finally looking at a night-blue, shimmering, full-blown _tail_ , he couldn’t really deny it any longer.

   “You’re a mermaid?” he exclaimed disbelievingly, stumbling backwards. This was ridiculous—it had to be a trick somehow. Cas had been sporting two perfectly normal, human legs just moments ago. He was gonna deny it, and laugh at Dean, and they’d pretend this never happened.

   But all Castiel said was, “I am not a maiden, Dean.”

   He wanted to run, or scream, or do any of the things that he would consider normal when facing this situation. Instead, he stupidly said, “I didn’t even know there were guys.”

   The creature rolled his eyes. “Of course there are males as well. You are being deliberately obnoxious.”

   Dean wasn’t sure why he kept talking, but he did, his brain still trying to work out what to think of all this. “But it’s always mermaids—girls—who attack the ships…”

   “It is, generally, males who are on those ships. Human males longing for females. It would be pointless for us to try and lure you when it is not us you desire.”

   Well, that made sense. “So you’re the housewives?”

   Castiel growled, and Dean was reminded of how vicious these creatures were. He took another step backward.

   “We are soldiers. Our females are hunters, so someone has to protect the nest. The sea is dangerous, Dean, under it even more than above. You humans fail to realize that we have enemies, too.”

   Somehow _that_ sparked his curiosity, because mermaids were assumed to be the most dangerous creatures around for sailors. “Like the Kraken?”

   Castiel cracked a smile at that. “The Kraken is under the control of a human—or someone who used to be one. His targets are human. What use does Davy Jones have for us?”

   Dean shrugged. “I dunno. Have you heard the stories about his crew? He can probably find a use for anything.”

   Castiel laughed softly at that, and Dean felt a smile tugging at his own lips as well.

   “So at Alastair’s ship—why’d you save me? Why not just… y’know, you could’ve left me there for them to drag down. Or gone with them.” Because he now assumed they’d been there for Cas as much as for the meat.

   “I could have,” the creature agreed. “But I did not want to. I have been watching the humans for a long time. I could not admit it to my kin, but your kind… intrigues me.” He frowned. “All my life, I had been warned for the cruelty of Men, but I had decided I wanted to see it for myself. Alastair got me not too long after.” He looked contemplative. “I learned a lot through you.”

   “Guess we proved you right about humans, huh.” He took a tentative step back in the direction he’d come from—towards Cas. This guy had saved him. He was still wary (because honestly, what was the worth in saving him? What did he want?) but he was also curious, and logic had never won it from Dean’s impulsivity.

   “Many did, yes.”

   “So why’d you bother?”

   “You are not a bad man,” Castiel said, his eyes boring into Dean’s. “Your stories told me that. You had gone through something awful and were about to succumb to your wounds. I could not let you.”

   Dean frowned, because that was not an explanation at all.

   “Good things do happen.”

   “Not to pirates.”

   He looked away, because Castiel’s gaze was starting to become unnerving. He knew he couldn’t trust him ( _“If it ain’t shaped human, you kill it”_ , Bobby had been telling him from a young age), but somehow he had a hard time reminding himself of this.

   “Dean, please,” the creature said quietly. “I was the one to grip you tight and get you out of there. I would not deceive you now; I am not searching to undo it.”

   He seemed sincere, but so did mermaids when they tried to lure sailors into the waters with them.

   And it looked like their men could put people under a spell too, and Dean had gotten too attached, ‘cause he just nodded, apparently dumbstruck, and asked, “But where’d your legs go?”

   Castiel actually laughed at that.

   Dean shook his head as though that would clear his thoughts. “That doesn’t explain why you need to kiss me.” (And why did he need to bring that up? He had a perfectly good excuse to ignore the whole thing and he had to bring it up again.)

   “Have you ever heard the myth that the kiss of a mermaid has healing powers?”

   Right. Of course. But he was a guy, and Cas was a guy, and guys didn’t just _kiss each other_.

   “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before.”

   “I wasn’t in a state to have a problem with anything.” That, at least, was true, even though now that he thought back on it he still didn’t regret it at all—and not just because he now knew that it had potentially saved his life. “It’s just… you’re a guy.”

   “Yes,” Cas said, because obviously this wasn’t new information.

   “Yeah, I dunno about you guys, but human guys usually kiss human girls.”

   “I am not human. And we aren’t usual.”

   Dean thought that should actually be an even bigger reason not to do this. He could almost hear John yelling at him for even considering this. A male, non-human creature? Was Dean even his son?

   “Cas, I don’t know if I can—”

   Castiel cocked his head a little and squinted at him. “It is not just that I am male.” It wasn’t a question; it was a statement, and it was true. Dean didn’t answer, because he was sure Cas already understood. “I am not Alastair, Dean. I will not hurt you.”

   “I know.” Because he did. What reason would Cas have to hurt him _now_ all of a sudden, anyway? He let out a shaky breath. “You could at least buy me dinner first?” he tried to joke.

   “Alright,” Cas said seriously, before diving into the water.

   He came back a while later with fresh fish.

   “I like these,” Cas said, tracing the freckles on Dean’s shoulders that had come to stand out because of the sun. Dean grumbled something and turned away a little.

   “Did you know mer-kin don’t get freckles?” he went on. “Our people have a legend that says… freckles are kisses from the sun. Mer-kin don’t usually go above the waters. It is unnecessarily dangerous.” He smiled. “They are blessings.”

   “I dunno ‘bout that, Cas.” He shrugged the other man off for real this time, still not comfortable with anyone touching him even if this was the guy he’d agreed to share a kiss with every now and then. But whenever he felt hands on his body, he could hear Alastair whispering into his ear, and it made him want to puke.

   Instead, he looked at the sad little boat lying on the sand a few meters away from them. They were gonna be leaving here sometime soon. Hell, he wanted to leave this place. Dean needed people around him, and Cas was good company, but he wasn’t enough. He needed Sam, and Jo, even Bobby and the rest of his crew.

   Castiel just hummed. “I think our boat is as ready as it will be,” he said quietly.

   “Yeah.”

   “We should leave early next morning.”

   “I still don’t know how you managed to put up with me for so long, y’know.” His tone was jokingly, but he meant it. All that time on Alastair’s ship, and now all those days and nights on the islands, no one to talk to but each other. He’d figured Cas would get sick of his face after two days. But there had been a lot more—and maybe he should’ve counted them, but he hadn’t—and here they were.

   “You think too little of yourself,” said Cas.

   “Maybe you think too much of me.”

   “Why is it that you act so self-assured, yet you seem to think the opposite?”

   This was all heading into too much touchy-feely territory for Dean. Just because he allowed them one shallow kiss a day—for healing purposes—didn’t mean he was suddenly going to share his life story with this guy. And sure, Cas was a great guy, but they weren’t a thing, and he refused to act as such.

   “How’re we gonna do it, anyway?”

   Cas sighed.

   It had taken a surprising amount of time to drag the little boat all the way from the edge of the forest to the shoreline. It was exhausting enough to plough through dry, hot sand without dragging along what was basically a pile of wood, and Dean had had the fantastic idea to try to do it on his own because Cas was gonna have to pull him along to land for long enough anyway.

   At least he got to sit down after that.

   He still found it weird to think of Cas as anything other than human, even though he’d seen the tail a few times now. It was gorgeous, too. The scales shone different colours in the light, and as was common among mermaids—mer- _kin_ , he had to remind himself—the long tail was more graceful than its size would suggest.

   Frankly, somewhere in the back of his mind a little voice that sounded suspiciously like his dad was still telling him that he’d been put under a spell, but he tried to ignore it.

   Still, being dragged along in a tiny boat kinda felt like being a child who needed help. (But he did need help, because alone in a tiny boat it’d take him at least several days to reach the closest civilized land, and he’d be dead and eaten by birds or monsters by the time he’d arrive. And he’d just started feeling well again.)

   He forced the little John voice out of his mind by thinking of Sam instead. His little brother would ask if he was entirely sure about this. He’d say no, but Cas had saved him before, and it was either this or staying on that island on the off chance that a ship would come by and pick him up. He thought Sam would probably nod with a thoughtful face, and somehow, it made him feel a little better.

   The boat came to too sudden a stop for it to be natural, or even planned. Cas resurfaced not a moment later, followed by a woman Dean assumed to be a mermaid, and Dean braced himself. Should’ve listened to reason.

   “Hello, Castiel.”

   She was gorgeous, Dean thought fleetingly, her hair a fiery red he had never seen on a human before. She looked delicate and fierce at the same time, and Dean was intrigued. But more so, he was afraid and angry, because what if this had been a trap after all, and he should have known. He should’ve known better than to fall for a freaking siren.

   (But that was just the voice in the back of his mind speaking, because Cas had had plenty of time to hurt Dean on that island, or he could’ve just left him to his fate on Alastair’s ship, but he hadn’t. Dean should probably be grateful instead of suspicious. Shit, he was such an asshole.)

   “Anna,” Castiel said.

   “This is the human you were speaking of?” Straight to business.

   “Yes.”

   She was actually scrutinizing Dean, like a huntress eyeing her prey. He guessed she was.

   “He’s pretty.”

Dean scowled. He didn’t like that word when it came from Alastair’s lips, and he didn’t like it now.

   “Anna,” said Cas warningly, like he knew.

   She smiled, a warm smile that Dean hadn’t been expecting from a fierce creature like her. “Calm down, Castiel, I’m not going to hurt him.”

   “Then why are you here?”

   “What, I can’t check up on my little brother?”

   Hearing her refer to Castiel as her little brother reminded Dean of his own. He thought of Sam and how much he wanted to check up on his family, too, but mentally shook his head. It was surreal and stupid to compare himself to creatures as dangerous as mermaids.

   “Did Michael send you?”

   She sighed. “You were supposed to have returned to us a long time ago, Castiel. We’ve been worried about you. He allowed you to make sure the human would be safe and away from the pirate’s ship, not for you to turn your back on us.”

   “I did not, as you say, ‘turn my back’ on you. Dean was not safe on that island yet.”

   The mermaid—Anna—shook her head. “What happened to you? It’s not like you to disobey orders like this. First you abandon your duty to take a look on the upside of the water, now this?”

   Dean’s muscles slowly loosened up a little. He didn’t know how much they relied on orders, but it looked like they meant a lot. And Castiel had disobeyed his, apparently to get Dean to safety.

   It could be part of some master plan, but Dean was pretty sure they didn’t think that far. If they’d wanted to have him, they could do that anytime now, with him being defenceless in a tiny boat and all.

   “Dean is a good man,” Cas said. “I won’t have him saved from that ship only to let him die a slow death.”

   “I’m with Cas here,” Dean quipped, because apparently he couldn’t keep his mouth shut if his life literally depended on it.

   “Quiet, Dean.”

   Anna was looking at him with an amused smile playing around her lips. “Look, Castiel. I’m glad you are making your own choices, now. I am. But please, make sure the humans won’t hurt you again. I had to save you from one of the most notorious men on the seven seas. I don’t want anything like that to have to happen again.”

   “I know,” Castiel said. He looked genuinely upset about it, like he’d let his sister down by getting captured.

   “You do what you have to do,” she said, “but if anything happens to you again, I will bring you back home and not let you out of my sight again.” Her smile got a little broader, the kind of smile that you only give your family. “And hurry. Michael would rather have your human down with us than you up here among them.” It sounded ominous. Dean didn’t know who this Michael was, but he was pretty sure he didn’t like the guy.

   “Thank you, Anna.”

   “Go quick. He isn’t going to wait much longer.”

   She dived down into the waters without another word, showing off a glimpse of a turquoise tail. Dean stared after her, not so much enthralled as surprised by the encounter. “That Michael sounds like a dick.”

   “Michael is the one who keeps order in our nest,” said Castiel. “We may talk about this later. We must hurry now.”

   He, too, disappeared under the water’s surface, and Dean tried not to be frustrated at not having anyone to talk to about this, even if just to complain about this Michael figure. But they were moving again, and at the very least he could put foot on land again soon.

   They didn’t really talk on the way, mainly because Cas preferred to swim underwater. He said he’d missed the sea, missed its sounds and the way it looked underwater and even its other inhabitants, and Dean tried not to show how guilty he felt about that.

   It was probably the reason they got to land so soon. The two days Castiel had mentioned before they’d started on the boat seemed to be about right. Dean was glad for it, ‘cause he wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay in that boat and live to tell the tale. He needed real food, and possibly plenty of rum.

   “What are you going to do?” Castiel asked. They were hiding just out of sight, because Castiel either would have to leave or wait for his legs to emerge again. (Apparently they just did that when they came out of the water. Dean wondered if he’d ever met a mermaid before without even knowing it.)

   “Food, man. Meat. Rum. Something greasy.” His body was healed, but not strong enough for what he had to do next. “Find a ship. Find a temporary crew. Head for Tortuga.” Not necessarily in that order.

   “Will you be able to find your friends there?”

   “Maybe.” Probably not. But they could have left a clue for him there, just in case, and he was going to have to at least give it a shot. It wasn’t like he had any better ideas.

   “I could have taken you there.”

   “You should probably get back to your family, man.” Because Dean didn’t really want to get dragged into the sea by an angry older brother, and because he knew what it was like to be an angry older brother.

   Castiel frowned, looking for all the world like he didn’t agree with that statement. “If that is what you wish.”

   “Yeah, well, I’m hardly worth leaving your family for.” He’d been on a pirate ship since he was just a kid—he’d done plenty of things he wasn’t proud of. He’d killed people. He’d killed mermaids. Hell, he’d killed about anything that’d come in his way at some point, and he could almost admit he was a little disappointed Castiel’s family had taken care of Alastair already. He would’ve enjoyed that.

   He made it a point not to lock his gaze with Castiel’s, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain. “Thanks for, y’know, saving me.” There was a lot more to say, and at the same time there was nothing else. He’d shared a lot with Cas these past, what, months? And here they were, about to never see each other again.

   But they had to. Because they both had a family to go back to, and that was important. Dean sure wasn’t giving up his, and he wasn’t asking Cas to do that for him, either. As he’d said, he wasn’t worth that.

   Castiel, apparently, shared the sentiment of using as little words as possible. “Goodbye, Dean.”

   It was almost sad, he thought as he watched Castiel slip away under the surface of the ocean, that he’d never get the chance to find out more about the merpeople. Sam would give him hell for it. He’d had plenty of opportunity, even though they hadn’t been on the island for long after Cas’s confession.

   He wasn’t sure why he _hadn’t_ asked more questions. He liked to pretend it had to do with Cas’s creepy mer-kin powers, or with him not really wanting to know, but in the end he knew that it was because it had felt like they would have more time.

   Except they didn’t, and he needed to get himself together.

   Finally, he pulled himself towards the closest dock and climbed onto it with apparent ease. Now to get some clothes, so he could walk around a little more dignified. No one was gonna take him to Tortuga bare-chested, sunburnt and covered in fresh scars, and he wasn’t walking into a bar full of greasy men like this either.

   But he had a plan, and that was more than he could’ve imagined when all of this crap had started.

 


	4. Travelling Riverside Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They were facing each other, both pointing guns between the other’s eyes, and Dean would never admit to the fact that his hand was shaking a little, but it was.

Tortuga was exactly how Dean remembered it: dark, disgusting, and the perfect place to go for a pirate in need of something. No one looked at anyone twice here, and nobody batted an eye at strange requests or missing explanations. Most people here didn’t even recognize Dean. Or maybe they just didn’t care, which he’d find insulting on a good day, but was grateful for now.

   Most people.

   He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard the click of a gun behind his head.

   “So it was true then, what they were saying. You’re still alive.” The voice sounded disgusted, like Dean was a bucket of shit or something equally repulsive.

   “Looks like it,” he replied without turning around. The voice didn’t sound entirely familiar. Probably a stray survivor from one of the ships he’d attacked or something. This was exactly the reason Dean didn’t leave any survivors, except for those he took on as crew on his own ship. Dean wasn’t entirely heartless and cruel; he recognized that there were some good people under the command of bad captains, sometimes.

   Whoever this was, was clearly not one of those people.

   “And you were really stupid enough to come to Tortuga.”

   Dean shrugged. “What can I say? Brains were never my strong suit.”

   “We’ll find out soon enough when I blow them out of your skull.”

   All talk, no play, apparently, because any self-respecting pirate would’ve blown his brains out the second they could even halfway decently aim their gun at him. “Listen, buddy—”

   His body jolted with the sound of a gun being fired. He braced himself, expecting an outburst of pain any second. It didn’t come.

   “Always wanting to have the last word will be the end of you someday, you know that?” The words were followed by the sound of a gun being put away, and Dean dared to finally turn around.

   “Son of a bitch,” Dean said, grinning at the familiar face that greeted him.

   “You’d say that.” A blond boy was grinning at Dean from several meters away. “Never thought I’d say it, but it’s good to see you, man.”

   Dean said, “You too,” and meant it. He then looked down at the body lying at his feet and kicked it over. The action revealed a boy not much older than the blond one, if at all. Dean had no idea at all who it was.

   “Son of your friend Alastair’s,” the blond boy said. “I’ve been after him for a while now. Trying to do on land what his daddy did at sea.”

   “On your own?”

   “Please, as if old Turner would let me.” The boy shook his head, but it was with a smile. “We should at least get this guy out of sight. Someone will find him soon enough as it is. I’d rather not be caught with him.”

   They dragged the body into a narrow alley. Dean tried not to look at its face too much. He wasn’t afraid of death—not of dead bodies, nor of dying himself—but to see young faces so empty reminded him of when they almost lost Sam, when his little brother hadn’t been with them for long yet. And it tended to remind him, too, of people like the blond boy.

   Dean didn’t wish the life he’d led on anyone, least of all his family. He guessed it was something of a given with a dad like John Winchester, though.

   He tried not to think about the fact that it had been his fault that Sam came along; only because he selfishly wanted to see his brother once more before setting off to keep John’s legacy alive. Sam would’ve gotten somewhere in life, a position in a high up classy place that Dean would hate even though he’d be proud of his brother at the same time. He would’ve become the opposite of Dean, had Dean not dragged him into this.

   The worst was probably that Dean couldn’t find it in him to feel bad about it, because he couldn’t imagine not having Sam with him.

   Adam, though. Adam hadn’t known of John for years. He’d lived not knowing who his father was, a fact he and his mother had been shunned for. He said it’d been horrible, but between life as a social outcast with a mum who cared about you and living on a pirate ship with a father who cared for nothing but revenge, Dean figured he knew which of the two was the better option.

   Adam had found out who his father was one unfortunate day when _The Impala_ had laid anchor in some insignificant little town. It had turned out not to be so insignificant after all when John had gotten drunk out of his mind and decided it to be a good idea to go look for a woman he’d been with years ago. He’d found Kate Milligan, and he’d found their son Adam.

   Needless to say, the encounter hadn’t been a pretty one.

   Dean frowned. “So you been doing, what? Playing assassin?”

   “I took on the family business,” Adam replied seriously, gesturing for Dean to follow him. “Only monsters don’t live just in the sea. There’s plenty around here as well.”

   “Kid…”

   “I don’t wanna hear it,” his half-brother said sharply. “You're not the only one who gets to carry John’s legacy.”

   “It’s not the kind of life you want to live.” Dean’s voice was gruff, and he cleared his throat to get rid of the thick feeling there.

   “Then why are _you_ still doing it?”

   Because there would always be monsters out there. Because if he could save other people’s lives, maybe his would be worth something. Because he didn’t know how to be anything else.

   Adam shot him one significant look and slipped into the tavern they’d arrived at, effectively bringing the conversation to an end. The entrance was a narrow one, but it led to a fairly big establishment, well-known to many pirates. Dean followed him, making sure his face was halfway covered just in case.

   He’d been on his way to this tavern before Alastair’s son had pointed a gun at him. It was a place he’d known since childhood, and the darkness and the smell of grease and alcohol and smoke were almost comforting.

   “Rufus,” he said to the barman and owner of _Hunter’s Haven_.

   “You,” Rufus Turner answered quietly, his dark eyes skirting around the pub just in case. “Come with me.”

   Dean shot a quick look at Adam, who nodded, and followed Rufus to the backroom of the pub. He kept his head a little down but his posture straight, eyes flicking this way and that to ensure no one was watching him. Rufus, he knew, was doing the same thing.

   Rufus closed the door behind him and locked it, looking at Dean like he was some sort of miracle. “Damn, Winchester. Didn’t think I’d see you again.” He squinted. “Where’d Milligan pick _you_ up?”

   “What can I say,” said Dean with a wry grin. “You ain’t getting rid of me that easily.”

   The dark man before him looked unimpressed.

   “He uh, helped me get out of a situation out there,” he answered the bar owner’s second question. “Not my finest moment.”

   “Shut your mouth, kid. Your brother n’ friends turn up here without you, something about _The Demon_ —” Rufus narrowed his eyes at that, looking like he knew exactly how they’d come to clash with that ship and judging Dean for it.

   “Yeah, yeah. Stupid, I know.” He grinned, showing a confidence he didn’t feel. “But he’s a dead man.”

   “Killed by mermaids, from what I heard,” Rufus said, raising his brows. “Now, unless you wanna tell me you magically turned into one—”

   Dean coughed. “No, of course not. I escaped.”

   “I can see that.” The bar owner kept looking at Dean expectantly, but Dean wasn’t about to give him the story of what had happened. Should’ve thought that through better and come up with a story beforehand.

   “Yeah, well,” he said instead. “You got anything on my crew?”

   “No,” Rufus said bluntly. “Dammit, Dean, you coulda been dead for all we knew. They been here, you know—after they escaped?” He phrased it as a question, asking whether Dean knew what had happened.

   Dean thought of what Castiel had told him and figured the mer-kin had been telling the truth. “So some merchant ship rescued them just to throw ‘em into prison?”

   “Oh, I think it wasn’t just a merchant ship. Remember that commodore your father used to have quarrels with?”

   Dean thought that quarrels were probably a bit of an understatement, but nodded anyway.

   “Aye. Probably figured a public execution would do the royal navy more good than letting some pirates rot away on an island.” Rufus smiled bitterly.

   “But they got out, right?” He was pretty sure that was exactly what Rufus just said, but he needed it confirmed. In those exact words, preferably.

   “Sure they did. Came to visit me, ask if I’d heard anything from or about you. ‘Course, I hadn’t.”

   Dean waited for more, but nothing came. “So where’d they go after that?”

   Rufus looked at him for a moment before saying, “Dunno. I think they split up. It was only Sam and Bobby and that other kid—Jo, I think—who were here to begin with.”

   “Oh,” Dean said, because he couldn’t really come up with anything else. The thought of his crew scattered about without a ship or a captain made him a little sick. “Okay.” He straightened his back and plastered a smirk on his face. “In that case, get me a drink, will ya?”

   Rufus just rolled his eyes and followed Dean back into the bar. He did pour him a drink, though, and Dean sought out a spot a little away from the centre of the bar to sit down, keeping his face shadowed the entire time. And it was a good thing, too, as it didn’t take him long to realize what the guys to his left were talking about.

   “…good money for him.”

   “Aye, but do you _trust_ him? You realize who we’re talking about here, yeah?”

   “I don’t need to trust him, I just need his money.”

   From the corner of his eye, Dean saw one of the guys looking around the bar in a way that made Dean believe he was scared of anyone hearing what he was about to say. “But why does he need him killed now? Dean Winchester’s dead.”

   Dean tried not to sit up a little straighter at those words and attract any attention, but it was hard. Whoever this was about, it didn’t sound good.

   The other man leaned a little further forward towards his companion. Dean had to strain to hear him say, “I heard he’s trying to get their crew back together. Probably found that landlife wasn’t for him, after all. Guess Crowley’s afraid the guy’s gonna follow his brother’s path and end up attacking his ship someday.” The guy sat back and grinned. “I say we go for it. It’s just one guy, and a lot of gold.”

   “Aye, maybe you’re right.” The other guy slammed back his drink and got up. “At sunrise, then?”

   “Sunrise.”

   Dean let out a breath that he hadn’t realized he was holding as the guys left. _Sam._ They thought he was dead and now they were after Sam to make sure the Winchester threat would be wiped out.

   He thought of all the shit that he’d put Sam through since he’d picked him up with Ellen and Jo, and got up, a plan forming in his mind. “I need Adam,” he told Rufus. “And I need your help.”

   It wasn’t much of a plan.

   Honestly, it wasn’t really a plan at all. Rufus had called in some favours, and Dean and Adam had figured out some places at which Sam might have stayed during the past couple of weeks—Adam knowing more about actually living on land than Dean ever had. They’d ended up with a route for Dean to follow, and a promise that he could go along with some of Rufus’ old friends up until his first stop, as long as he acted as part of the crew.

   It would probably have been a hell of a lot easier if he could know for sure where Sam had lived in the past months, but he didn’t, and he had to act fast.

Adam bit his lip as he saw Dean off, a little nervously. He didn’t look at Dean as he talked, and the latter knew what was coming. “You know, I could…”

   He trailed off. Dean didn’t indulge him.

   “Only you’re not gonna let me anyway.” It was a statement, not a question.

   “No,” agreed Dean.

   “Come back once you’ve found them, okay?” Adam laughed humourlessly, as if he didn’t believe what he was gonna say next. “Pick me up then.”

   “We’ll see, kid,” Dean said.

   They both knew it wasn’t going to happen.

   Adam nodded, resigned. “I’ll see you around, Dean.”

   Dean wasn’t sure what to say to that, but he didn’t have to. Adam was gone in the blink of an eye, and Dean felt oddly relieved. He wasn’t too keen on dragging another family member down with him.

   So he got on the ship, shot one last look at Tortuga, and got ready for the journey.

   Said journey was uneventful, for a change. Dean actually kinda liked it. Usually he preferred being in charge on a ship, but ever since Alastair, a weariness had crept into his bones that left him to relish the times that he didn’t have to make the decisions. His last big decision had been the beginning of this entire mess, after all.

   They laid anchor at Port Maroon first, since it was central and (perhaps more importantly), Ellen’s old bar used to be here.

   Adam had suggested Sam might’ve returned to the place where he grew up. Dean had actually shot down that idea, mainly because it was too obvious. But, because of the Port’s central position and Rufus’ old friends agreeing to Dean coming along until they reached it, it was quickly decided that he check the place out anyway.

   Now that he was here, though…

   Dean had always tried to omit any places that held important memories. He’d only lived here a few years, but the memories were good ones. He remembered him and Jo fighting each other with blunt, wooden swords; remembered seeing little Sammy grow up here. Ellen had taken good care of them, but she’d often had her hands full running the bar, and Dean had taken it upon himself to see to it that Sam and Jo grew up well. Even though he’d been just a kid himself back then, and Jo only a year younger.

   He shook himself out of his reverie. Dean was here to look for Sam, not to stroll down memory lane.

   A winding road led past the harbour and its shops. Dean recalled that if he followed it, he should find the ironically named Roadhouse on his right, so he set off. He ignored the terrible smell of fish and the sailors leering at him and tried to pay attention to his visual surroundings instead.

   But when he got to the place where The Roadhouse should be, there was nothing there except the burnt foundations of an old building. Fear gripped Dean’s heart for a moment—what if Sam had been here after all, and someone had gotten here before Dean? But then he looked closer and saw mould growing, and weeds trying to force their way to the sunlight between the wreckage. It looked like the building had burnt down quite some time ago, yet no one had cared to build it anew.

   He felt a little sick to his stomach. This had been his childhood home, long ago. Sam had lived here for much longer than Dean had. And here it was, burnt down to its foundations without anyone to care.

   Dean usually prided himself on not being a sentimental person, dammit.

   He noticed a short guy staring at him a short distance away and quickly walked on. It wouldn’t do to raise suspicion, not when people believed him dead and a reward was out for his brother’s murder. He couldn’t let people know he was still alive, not before he reached Sam.

   Trying to remember if there were any good ordinaries to stay in, he kept on going down the road, the image of The Roadhouse stuck behind his eyelids. He wasn’t even sure why it bothered him so much. Bill and Ellen had both died at sea, and Jo was a pirate now, too.

   (He imagined Jo returning here after escaping from prison, her shocked expression and wide eyes, and made the resolve that even if the crew had all split up, he was going to find them. Jo was his little sister, and Dean had promised to look after her.)

   A place called Black Horse called his attention. It looked as good a place to stay as any—which was to say, not very great, but at least it looked like it’d have a proper bed. He didn’t have a lot of money on him, just the gold he’d found in the pockets of the clothing he’d stolen, but he was only staying here tonight anyway. If he didn’t find anything useful, he was leaving early next morning.

   The girl showing him his room looked at him suspiciously. His clothing, like that of many seamen, was a size too big for him, and he refused to show all of his face. He was also six feet tall and quite a bit broader than the petite girl. He could hardly fault her for looking a little scared.

   “Here are your keys, Mister Smith,” she said, nervously holding out the key to the room they were standing in front of. “I will be downstairs if you need me.” And she was gone, hurrying downstairs.

   Dean thought it was very classy that they had someone showing him to his room. He didn’t know a lot about life on land—he barely stayed there even if they had stopped to resupply—and from what he did know, taverns and ordinaries were usually manned by gruff men and women who weren’t afraid of some iniquity.

   Maybe he’d just picked the wrong places, those few times he had stayed on land overnight.

   He looked around the room, deemed it good enough for one night, and decided he might as well go explore the town a little more. He wasn’t going to find Sam (if he was here at all) by sitting in a dark room for the rest of the day.

   He’d barely stepped out of the establishment as he heard someone say, “Well, well, if it isn’t Dean Winchester.”

   A shorter guy in a freaking suit was grinning up at him, and Dean couldn’t pretend he hadn’t seen him or thought the guy was talking to someone else, because his brown eyes were boring straight into Dean’s.

   “Smith, actually,” Dean said, as calmly as he could.

   “Of course,” the man said, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. “Dean Winchester is dead, isn’t he?”

   “That’s what I heard.”

   “Yes, as did I.” The man looked contemplative. “You fancy a drink, Mister Smith?”

   Dean wanted to say no. He didn’t trust this guy at all. But it didn’t look like the guy would take no for an answer, especially not when his eyes flicked toward the other side of the street. There were two more men standing there, and they were keeping an eye on them.

   He weighed his options, even though he knew he didn’t really have any. After all that had happened, he wasn’t about to gamble on none of these guys carrying a weapon they could take him down with from afar.

   So Dean said, “Depends. Are you buying?”

   The man just looked at him, in a way that Dean didn’t like. It wasn’t like Alastair had looked at him—that had been a hunter eyeing his prey, and Dean shuddered to even think how feral that look became the more submissive Dean became. But that memory made him want to puke, so he forced it gone as fast as possible.

   No, this man’s look was calculating. Like he was forming an intricate plan in his head, and Dean wasn’t going to like it. He pushed down a shudder. No reason to show any emotions here.

   Dean followed the man to a tavern that he missed seeing the name of. The two men who had stood at the other end of the road followed them, just a few steps behind. The short man gestured for one of them to get him and Dean drinks as they sat down.

   “Let’s talk,” the man said.

   Dean scoffed. “We can talk once you’ve told me who you are.”

   The man smirked and held out his hand for Dean to shake. “Name’s Crowley. Fergus Crowley. Tradesman.”

   Even as he said the words, anger filled up Dean’s mind. _Crowley_. This was the guy who’d ordered Dean’s brother dead. He tried to keep calm, however; Crowley was obviously waiting for Dean to respond to his name, and Dean wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction.

   He took a deep breath in order to control his anger, gratefully taking the short diversion of having a pint shoved in front of him for what it was before finally asking, “What do you want?”

   “I have a… proposition.” Crowley took a sip from his drink and smirked. “You see, everyone presumed you were _dead_.”

   “I know that,” Dean said tightly.

   “So we should take advantage of that.”

   Dean resisted the urge to slam all of his drink back in one go. Or slam his fist into Crowley’s face. How dare this guy talk to him like they were partners, when it had sounded to Dean like he wanted to be rid of the entire Winchester line? But Dean could play along with this game. “Yeah? How would ‘we’ do that?”

   “Oh, I have a few ideas. People thought you were scary before, you know.” Crowley didn’t look very impressed, like he didn’t agree with what people thought. He smiled. “We could have a lot of fun together.”

   As loathe as Dean was to listen, he knew he couldn’t get up and leave when Crowley started to explain his idea anyway.

   Crowley had a way with words that Dean never had, a tone that could convince someone to hang themselves with their own hair. And as much as Dean hated to admit it, Crowley’s plan, once he’d properly explained it, did appeal to him. It all boiled down to manipulation, and using the fact that people expected Dean to be dead to their advantage. It was what Crowley usually did, using the guise of trade ships to overpower other ships and seaports without using force. Shit, Crowley offered him his own ship and crew as long as Dean answered to him. It sounded almost appealing.

   However, there was one little setback. “You ordered to get my brother killed.”

   “Ah, yes,” Crowley said. By the look on his face, Dean guessed the man hadn’t thought Dean knew about that. Crowley seemed to refuse to let that stop him, though. “An… unfortunate decision, I can see that now.” He took a sip of his drink.

   “Damn straight.” Dean did knock back his pint then, and got up. “See, I might’ve taken you up on that offer. But no one touches my family.”

   Crowley didn’t look in the least surprised. “Regrettable,” he said, standing up as well and shoving his hands into the pockets of his coat. At least four others got up at the same time, and Dean heard the guns before he saw them. He heard someone gasp at a nearby table and reminded himself of the innocent people in the tavern.

   Really, he shouldn’t have been surprised. Crowley had ordered Sam dead, there was no way he’d let Dean walk free after refusing his offer.

   “I’m not changing my mind,” he said calmly.

   “I don’t know,” Crowley answered. “I still have some… things to show you that may change your mind. If you would follow me?”

   Dean didn’t really have a choice. It was too many against one, and he wasn’t going to let anyone inside get hurt because of him, either.

   So he got up and followed Crowley outside, painfully aware of the amount of guns aimed at him. Dean only had a sword; he’d be full of bullet holes before he would even have his weapon out of its scabbard.

   Bugger.

   The tavern was close to the harbour, and they reached a merchant ship called _Hell’s Rise_ quickly. It struck Dean as an odd name for such a type of ship. Its name was all too similar to _The Demon_ , and Dean couldn’t believe this crap was happening to him again.

   Maybe he did deserve it.

   The guns behind him forced him to enter the ship and follow Crowley into a small, but tastefully decorated space. The other captain stayed close to the door, however, and even if Dean hadn’t seen it coming that should have ticked him off.

   “This could be all yours, you know,” said Crowley. “To start with, of course. We would get you your own ship if you prove to be good enough, as promised. Just think over the proposition for a little longer. I think,” he said, “you’ll feel like you’ll want to stick around here for a little while.” He smirked. “Now, I have some business to do. I’ll see you later, Mister _Smith_. In the meantime, I advise you to think about it.”

   And with that he was gone, and Dean heard the door fall in the lock behind him.

   He wondered how he managed to keep landing himself in these kinds of situations.

   At least he still had his sword this time, so getting out couldn’t be too hard, could it? Hell, he could probably smash the lock if it came to it.

   But it couldn’t be that easy. Crowley was smarter than that, Dean knew. He had to be. Dean only still had his sword because Crowley believed it didn’t matter. So Dean padded quietly to the door and tried to see if he could catch a glimpse of the other side through the lock.

   He saw a gun.

   Of course Crowley would leave his cronies outside the door. Dean had no idea how many there were, since it was only a keyhole he was looking through, but he didn’t doubt for a second that he was outnumbered. And out-weaponed, too.

   Okay. So he needed to come up with something, and fast. He didn’t know how long this ship was going to be resting in this harbour, but the thought that it might well leave with him still on it made him queasy. And meanwhile, Sam was still in danger.

   These guys would probably get tired or bored soon, right? Maybe he could find a way to pick the lock and wait till they changed guards, when their attention wasn’t focused solely on his door.

   But Dean couldn’t find anything small enough to pick a lock with, and just shoving his sword in the crack between lock and wood didn’t appear to be working either. If he was gonna get out, it wasn’t going to be silently.

   It started getting dark outside and Dean had yet to hear movement outside his door, and each time he tried to look the gleam of that gun still greeted him.

   Well, screw that. He couldn’t stay here. He wouldn’t be a prisoner again.

   He’d taken out his sword and was about to slam it against the lock when he heard singing, and it sounded like Cas but at the same time it _didn’t_. He thought it was the same language, but the voice wasn’t as deep (though still decidedly male) and there was just something… lacking.

   He didn’t dwell on it. He went to town on the lock instead.

   The first try was a hit, though not hard enough in itself to break the lock. At the second try, he managed to hit his knuckles against the wood of the door instead, hauling them open. He clenched his jaw and ignored it.

   Outside, he heard noises now: first a gunshot, then a scream. The noises only made him want to break out faster. He kept on, throwing his shoulder against the door every now and then in hopes the lock would break faster that way. He could hear water splashing and tried not to panic. What if it was that Michael creep Anna had been talking about, who was coming for Dean because he’d corrupted his little brother?

   He threw his shoulder against the door again. It croaked pathetically.

   Then, finally, with one more well-aimed blow at the lock, it flew open.

   There was also immediately a gun aimed at his head, straight between his eyes. “Stop there. Drop your weapon.”

   “Uh,” Dean said. “Sorry about the door?” He didn’t drop his sword, though. His eyes flicked toward the source of the ruckus he’d been hearing earlier. There wasn’t much for him to see except a load of water splashing in all directions, and a regular flash of chestnut brown. He focused back on the gun. It was aimed straight between his eyes.

   “Hey, mate, listen. It doesn’t have to be that way, you know.” He had no idea where he was going with this, he just knew he had to keep talking, and keep whatever he was gonna say interesting enough to buy him a little time. He could knock the gun out of the man’s hand, but he had to do it when the guy was distracted. Dean wasn’t entirely sure why he hadn’t been shot yet—perhaps Crowley preferred him alive as long as he was under his control, he thought. Still, Dean didn’t doubt that he would be killed nonetheless if he was too obvious in his movements, because he’d probably be considered better dead than there holding a grudge against this ship and its captain.

   That, at least, was true, from Crowley’s point of view. If he got out of this situation, Dean would pay Crowley back in kind, and it wasn’t gonna be pretty.

   His frantic thoughts were interrupted by the drawling voice of the ship’s captain. “Friend of yours?”

   Dean turned around to see Crowley looking at the ruckus in the water, not seeming at all bothered that it was one of his own fighting for his life there.

   “Nope,” Dean said, because it was true. He didn’t particularly care who it was, either. All he cared about was getting the hell away from here. “Well anyway, I’ve had some time to think about your plan.” He tightened his grip on the sword he was still holding, and said, “I don’t like it.”

   Dean simultaneously leaned back and struck his sword in the man’s direction, too fast and unexpected to fail hitting the arm that was still aiming the gun at him. It went off loudly, the bullet crashing into the door behind Dean, before it fell onto the deck. Dean wasted no time in picking it up, feeling a grim sort of satisfaction at the blood running down the other man’s injured arm. It only took a few seconds. He felt some pride in knowing that his reflexes were still as good as they’d always been.

   “I had a nice stay,” he said, aiming the gun at Crowley instead, “But I really gotta run now. I heard someone has it out for my brother.”

   Crowley still didn’t look impressed.

   Dean walked backwards slowly, eyes focused on the scene he was trying to leave. The man who’d been aiming the gun was staring at him angrily, but didn’t look like he was about to follow him unless ordered to. Dean had hoped he was that kind of stupid. Crowley, on the other hand, took out a gun of his own in one swift movement.

   It wasn’t aimed at Dean.

   The tradesman didn’t bat an eye as he pulled the trigger on his own crewman. He didn’t even look away from Dean as he did so. “I have no use for idiots who get overpowered that easily,” he said by way of explanation.

   Dean stared at him and inched toward the ship’s gunwalls.

   “Now,” Crowley said, as though he’d done nothing out of the ordinary, “Where were we?”

   Dean took another step backward.

   “Ah, yes.” Crowley smiled and aimed his gun at Dean instead. “See, as you might have considered already, I don’t fancy the thought of letting you go much.”

   They were facing each other, both pointing guns between the other’s eyes, and Dean would never admit to the fact that his hand was shaking a little, but it was. He didn’t see how he was gonna get out of this one. He was good in a swordfight, wouldn’t doubt himself for even a second if that was what this were. Instead, he was facing the wrong end of a gun, pointed by a guy who would kill Dean and have his brother killed too, just because he shared Dean’s last name.

   He wondered how fast he could be, but cast aside that thought right away. He could never turn his back to the enemy for long enough to jump down onto the pier and run for it. Crowley would pull the trigger as soon as Dean moved. And though he himself was holding a gun as well, he wasn’t as sure about his aim as he would with a sword. One miss would result in sure death for him as well.

   “I would ask you to think this through a little better,” Crowley drawled, “since we both know you were interested in what I had to tell you.” He shook his head. “Pity that you refuse to do so. I could have had good use for you.”

   Dean was about to pull the trigger on his gun after all, because he couldn’t see a lot of other options—at least if he died, he would take Crowley with him—but he never got the chance to. He saw Crowley’s eyes widen just before Dean was being grabbed from behind and pulled over the pier into the water, claws digging into his shoulders.

   It only then occurred to him that the thrashing in the water had stopped a while ago. He almost laughed at the irony of a mer-kin being his demise. Instead, he took a breath and closed his eyes just in time before feeling the cold wetness of the sea engulf him, as though that last supply of oxygen would save him.

   He’d let go of the gun in shock when he’d been grabbed, but his sword was still in his hand, albeit the wrong one. He tried aiming it behind him anyway, but his arm was immediately held still by a strong claw. Bugger. He was so screwed.

   He realized that the claws weren’t trying to tear him apart and in fear let go of the breath he’d been holding. He was going to be dragged down, slowly and painfully until his chest constricted with the water pressure and his lungs gave out for lack of oxygen—whichever came first. Just the thought of it made him thrash about again, but the mer-kin was far stronger and in its element at that, and Dean was starting to become light-headed. He needed air, and he needed it fast.

   Opening his eyes as though they could help his body gain oxygen, he noticed one curious thing: apparently even this deep down, the moonlight still penetrated the water.

   And then, suddenly, there was air again, and he was gasping for it, feeling himself let go of and splashing around because his mind couldn’t think of anything else to do for a moment. “What the—”

   There was an old dock right beside him, and it couldn’t be more different from the pier he’d been trying to jump onto just moments ago. It was obviously old and by the looks of it, it had been years since anyone had last been here.

   That was just perfect.

   Dean finally threw his sword on land and used his arms to hoist himself up as well. He managed to get to solid ground before he had to lie down again, lungs hurting enough to require him to rest a little.

   “Not getting in trouble with Cap’ Crowley there now, are you?” a voice suddenly said.

   Dean groaned and looked up, wondering why the hell someone would be here this late in the evening. It was the short guy who’d been staring at Dean earlier that day, at the old Roadhouse. This close, Dean could see he had mischievous golden eyes and his hair seemed, strangely, to be wet, but his expression was grim.

   “Yeah, yeah. Listen up, bucko. There’s a lot you need to know about Crowley, and apparently a lot that you don’t know yet. First of all, you’re an idiot.”

   “Yeah, I know,” Dean said, because he didn’t have the energy to argue.

   “I’m serious. What are you _doing_ here? Everyone’s out for—well, no, they think you’re dead, but if they find out you’re not…” He looked around, as though he thought someone might jump out of the bushes any minute. “Come with me.”

   “Where to?” Dean asked suspiciously, because this man knew who he was and Dean didn’t trust it for a second.

   “Someplace safe, you asshat.”

   Dean scowled. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” He finally got up again, taking hold of his sword in the process. “See, I’m sick of people trying to get me to do stuff. Why would I trust you any more than them, huh?”

   The man smirked and held out his hand. “Gabriel. Great to meet you. Everyone’s favourite brother.”

   Dean raised an eyebrow. That didn’t make any sense. “Whatever,” he said, not shaking the hand. “It was nice talking to you, man, but I gotta go.” He was done with this town, and fairly sure Sam wasn’t here. Crowley was here, after all, and Dean was sure that if Sam was here now, he would’ve been dead already.

   “You’re an idiot,” Gabriel said again. “I’m offering you a place to hide.”

   “I don’t hide.” He felt a little offended at the mere idea. “I got better things to do than hide and wait till someone kills my brother.” His anger and indignation apparently showed in his face, because Gabriel looked at him for a short moment and sighed.

   “You know,” he said, “I don’t understand what Cassie sees in you.”

   Dean knew he shouldn’t be listening to this crap. Anything that was being said and done could be used against him, and he was tired of it. He just wanted to find his family and his ship and get on with what he did best. Still, something in him told him to hear this guy out.

   “Cassie?” He frowned. He did recall meeting a girl named Cassie once, but that was years ago. He’d tried to get her to come along with him, but she’d refused.

   “ _Castiel_ , you moron,” Gabriel said, exasperated.

   Dean had his sword against Gabriel’s throat in one graceful movement. This guy knew not only Dean’s name, but also knew about Castiel, and how could that be a good sign? The whole situation was being used against him. Cas had returned back into the deep, to be with his family. It made no sense that this guy knew about what had happened between them.

   “I’m starting to wonder if you’re just really that stupid,” said Gabriel. “Who do you think just dropped you off here in the first place, huh?”

   It took too long for Dean to connect the dots. “You’re a mermaid.” Gabriel was the one who’d been singing, the one who’d been ripping apart one of Crowley’s goons.

   He wasn’t yet sure what he thought of that.

   “Mer _kin_.” Gabriel pulled a face at him. “Hasn’t my little bro taught you anything? Do I look like a lady to you?”

   “You could’ve _killed_ me, you know that? I almost fucking drowned because of you.”

   “You also got off that ship because of me. You really think they would’ve let you run? You would’ve had a bullet in your back before you’d even hit the pier.” Gabriel rolled his eyes like Dean was the dumbest creature he’d ever met. “Now, tell me. Why are you really here? Spit it out. Why were you on that guy’s ship, anyway?”

   Dean looked at him, calculating. “I uh. May have lost my crew.”

   “You’re a terrible captain,” said Gabriel.

   “Yeah, whatever. You gonna help me out here or not? ‘Cause if you’re not, I’ll find a way to get the hell out of here myself.”

   “That depends. Are you gonna keep acting like that? Put that sword away. Who raised you, the Kraken?”

   Dean scowled, but did as he said. This guy knew about Cas, and just for that he was going to have to trust the man enough to hear him out. He was fairly sure he could take Gabriel on land if it came to it, anyway.

   “Much better. Now, I’ve got a few more tricks up my sleeve I think you’ll like.”

 


	5. Night Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thought he should perhaps be scared at the realization what a powerful creature the merkin was, but all he felt was a surge of relief and something that felt eerily like pride.

   Gabriel’s tricks weren’t so much tricks as ways to make it look like Dean had disappeared off the face of the earth, but Dean was grateful for it nonetheless. Crowley was actually looking for him, although he pretended to be doing anything other than that.

   Dean didn’t worry about it, because Gabriel was _good_. In fact, Dean was pretty sure the short guy was putting on that mer-kin charm to convince people of whatever he wanted them to believe. Hell, the guy could probably be walking around naked and still be able to convince others that he was, in fact, female.

   Dean silently cursed himself for thinking that. It wasn’t really an image he liked to have in his mind.

   “I know he’s here, you know,” said Crowley’s drawl finally. “I don’t care about you, you can go back to your fishy friends whenever you want.”

   “I’d be scared,” Gabriel answered, “except I’m not.”

   “See, I just need Dean Winchester dead. Or locked up. Really, I bet the governor would give me a lot of money for him, don’t you think?” Dean could hear the smirk in Crowley’s voice. “But you—I could just as easily sell you out. Have you ever wondered what they’d do after finding out what those legs of yours do when touching water?”

   “I suppose nothing good.” It was said lightly, though, like Gabriel in no way believed that would actually happen. “But you won’t. That would be a very nasty fate waiting for you if you did, wouldn’t it?”

   “Don’t worry, I could kill each and every one of your sort. I have my ways.”

   “Yeah, yeah, blah, blah. Listen, I want you out of this house, and out of this port by tomorrow morning. Dean Smith or no Dean Smith.”

   From Dean’s hiding place, it almost seemed like Gabriel was emanating some deep glow, threatening but not actually scary in any way. He wondered if what he was seeing was the literal mermaid charm at work, and kept watching with actual interest now.

   Crowley looked at the shorter man angrily. “You’re not fooling me, you know.”

   “Not trying to.” The glow was getting… not darker, but more threatening, a bit like Gabriel’s voice. Dean thought he was probably just imagining it, but whether the glow was actually there or not, he was at least sure that the atmosphere was changing in much the same way.

   Finally, Crowley actually took a step back, something a bigger man would probably have done ages ago. Something had shifted in his face, and Dean presumed that something was Gabriel’s plan finally working.

   “I suggest you leave.”

   The captain grumbled something. Gabriel seemed to be looking at him expectantly. Dean waited.

   He didn’t have to wait long. He was actually still surprised when Crowley left without a lot more fuss, and he waited just a little longer after Gabe gestured that it was safe to come out.

   “I prefer not to use violence,” the mer-kin said lightly, “but I came far too close here. What an asshat.”

   Dean laughed lightly in a relief that he wasn’t ready to admit.

   “So,” Gabriel said. “Where will you be heading next?”

   “North from here. That was the plan, in any case. Dunno if I’ll find what I’m looking for there any more than I did here.”

   “So,” Gabriel said lightly, like it didn’t matter at all. “What were you expecting to find here, anyway?”

   Dean laughed, though there was no humour in it. “Only my crew. Or my brother, at least. Should’ve known he wouldn’t be here, though. Too easy to find.”

   The mer-kin looked like he was thinking deeply and smirked. “See, I think it would help you a lot to go just a little further east.”

   “I think I got far enough east,” Dean said, frowning. He tried to come up with anything that could possibly be further east from here, but he couldn’t. Nothing that would appeal to Sam in any of those places, in any case. It was mostly islands. Sam probably would want to get away from his life at sea, not stay close to it.

   “Why?” he finally thought to ask. “What’s further east?”

   “Nothing,” answered Gabriel unconvincingly. He didn’t elaborate upon Dean’s questioning look.

   “Look, if you ain’t got any ideas, I’ll figure something out myself, alright?” All great that Gabe had helped him out, but whatever it was he was doing now, Dean wasn’t having it. It’d been so long since he’d gotten separated from his crew; it was about time he did something about that.

   “I just pitched you an idea.”

   “Yeah, and it’s stupid.”

   “No, you just don’t trust me.” He didn’t seem to care a whole lot, though. “How’re you planning on going north, anyway? Jump on another random ship and hope for the best?”

   He wasn’t. Frankly, he had no idea what his next move should be. All he knew was he had to get on the move as soon as possible—once Crowley had left the Port. If he went out now, he had no doubts it would get back to Crowley somehow. He didn’t fancy running straight into the tradesman’s hands, not if that’d mean being locked up again. Just the thought of it, experiencing once again that feeling of helplessness and knowing there is no way to get out of that prison—he felt sick just remembering it.

   He’d been telling himself he’d get over it ever since he’d escaped Alastair’s ship, but apparently he still hadn’t. His dreams still featured rusty knives, and still he could hear _The Demon_ ’s captain whisper in his ear sometimes, like he was still lingering behind Dean, waiting to strike.

   He thought he had been slowly getting over it on the island, because as time went by he’d suffered from less nightmares. But they had seemed to be getting worse again lately, even though Dean tried not to show it. He sometimes tried to think of Castiel’s voice as he sang when he lay in bed at night, since that had been soothing. It was hard, though, the longer he hadn’t seen the mer-kin.

   And it was terrible. Dean wasn’t _weak_.

   Dean Winchester didn’t need saving. He could look out for himself. If anything happened to him, he probably deserved it. He’d led his crew into what was essentially a suicide mission. Pirate or no, Dean had always cared a lot for his crew, more than any other captain—although that didn’t say much, as many of them didn’t care for their crew in the slightest.

   So he shouldn’t even be getting help, not really. And though Gabriel had managed to make it look like he’d never been here at all, even being in the same building as the mer-kin was getting on his nerves.

   Gabriel took his silence for what it was and stated, “You’re an idiot.”

   “That’s really useful,” Dean snapped sarcastically, because he’d heard that from the mer-kin’s mouth often enough now. “You gonna help me or not?”

   “I don’t know,” the creature said. “Are you going to be a nuisance all the time?”

   “Depends,” Dean retorted, “are you?”

   Gabriel rolled his eyes, but apparently decided to put an end to the bullshit and get to business, which was just as well if Dean actually wanted to get anywhere. “I do actually have a plan,” he said, “which is more than can be said for you.” And before Dean could snap out an answer to that, he added, “A plan that involves more than just going in a certain direction, mind you.”

   The pirate clenched his fists. He was starting to wonder why the mer-kin had decided to help him if he didn’t like him at all. Worse, he knew he had to be glad it had turned out this way, ‘cause loath as he was to admit it, Gabriel was right in that Dean had nothing more than vague ideas as to what to do next.

   Unfortunately, Dean’s mouth didn’t always seem to connect to his brain too well. “And? What, you gonna let me ride on your back till we’ve found them?”

   He knew that was the wrong thing to say the moment the words left his mouth. Gabriel snarled, showing pointy teeth and the shadow of claws seemed to come from his hands. It only lasted a moment, but Dean was sufficiently taken aback to get the point.

   “Do I look like a horse to you?” Gabriel said, the anger still evident in his voice even if not in his physical appearance. “You humans—always insulting the things you don’t understand, and you wonder why others aren’t inclined to listen to you.” He shook his head. “You’re lucky my baby bro gave you the time of day, ‘cause all you’re good for so far is cause a lot of unnecessary trouble.”

   Dean’s jaw clenched, but he wisely shut his mouth this time.

   “So in order to avoid that, you’re gonna stay here, you hear me?”

   Dean raised his eyebrows. “And do what?”

   “Wait. You can be the Waiting Woman.” The one who stood so long facing the sea awaiting her lover she turned into stone. Only Dean wasn’t a woman. And he didn’t have a lover. And where the hell did Gabriel get the idea that Dean would just sit here uselessly and wait for a mermaid of all creatures to find him his crew?

   “No.”

   “Yes.”

   “What are you even gonna do during that time, huh? Why the hell should I trust you to get anything done for me?”

   “Because I just saved your ass, you big oaf!” Gabriel finally snapped. “Listen here. I’m giving you one chance, just one. Give me a few days. Four days. Do you know how long you’ve been gone? You can add a few bloody days to that, I’m sure.”

   That stung, and Dean tried not to show it. He didn’t know exactly how long it’d been, but it was long enough. It’d hardly been some nice, casual days off. “There’s a reward promised to anyone who kills my brother, Gabriel. I don’t have time to wait for you.”

   “Listen up,” Gabriel said, obviously annoyed now. “Your brother, from what I heard, has been trying to get your crew back together. Something about a girl he met having been killed because of his past, if I’m not mistaken. Anyway, I don’t think they’re on land any longer. Rumour had it that just a few days ago, they stole an East Indiaman, which means they’d be out at sea. Get it?”

   Dean stared at the guy in shock, and still a little distrust. “How do you—”

   “I have connections,” Gabriel said, rolling his eyes. “Now, remember that dock I first dropped you off at? Be there at midnight in four days.”

   “You’re sounding like a maiden’s bedtime story.”

   “I’m serious, Dean. I’m on your side here.” Gabriel sighed. “Look, I’m not sure why I’m doing this, either. I don’t even like you all that much.” He grinned. “But certain other people do, and I can’t stand knowing that—” Another sigh. “Four days, Deano. I promise you’ll get to see your crew, alive. If you don’t trust me, then trust Cas’s judgement, will you?”

   “You’re not doing that convincing thing, are you?”

   “Oh for—you know what, I’m off, and you better be there when I get back, alright?” He was pulling off his shirt now, his words muffled by the fabric.

   “You better get back with something useful,” Dean answered.

   Gabriel just grinned at him again. “You bet.”

  And just like that, he was gone, leaving Dean no chance to protest or even ask what the _hell_ was going on. Either way, he was sure he wasn’t gonna sit around for four whole days, no matter what Gabriel said. This was still Sam’s life on the line, after all.

   Instead, he collected some maps and planned out possible routes to take from here. Port Maroon was still central enough to have several options open for him, even though he wasn’t yet sure how to take said routes. He almost wished he could just steal a ship, except he was on his own here—even if he had taken Adam up on his offer back in Tortuga, they could never defend themselves should they be followed. And they would be, Dean had no delusions about that. You don’t just steal someone’s ship and get away with it.

   (That meant, too, that if Gabriel was right and his crew was out at sea somewhere, they’d be chased by sailors angry about their ship _and_ people who wanted them dead. That was just great.)

   He thought of _The Impala_ and felt anger rise up inside him again. She could be anywhere, run down on some far-off cliffs or manned by a crew gleeful over his death. Those stories would’ve gotten to his crew. He shuddered to think about that. He knew chances were really high that his friends presumed him dead—everyone did, apparently. He just hadn’t allowed himself to really think about it yet.

   It was all he could do to hope he—or Gabriel, he thought grudgingly—would get to them in time.

   He grit his teeth, trying not to think about it. Before he’d left Tortuga, he’d considered staying there, in hopes they would meet each other back there eventually. But Dean wasn’t the type of guy who could just wait; he had to be doing something. Even if he had no idea how, he had to somehow find his crew.

   It wasn’t like he hadn’t thought of the possibility of them thinking him dead before; it was that he’d been so single-minded that he hadn’t wanted to pay it too much attention. It wasn’t that it really changed his plans much, though. His best option was still following Gabe’s directions and hoping it turned out to be right. He might just have to be a little more considerate in showing his face.

   Dean scoffed at his own thought. Yeah, right. Considerate.

   He needed a drink.

   He made his way back to the nearest bar, completely disregarding Gabriel’s warning. He was longing for some good rum and the buzz from the alcohol. He still had some gold that he’d managed to steal, and it should get him at least a few pints of alcohol.

   Once at the pub, he wasted no time at all ordering the finest rum and finally letting himself relax, taking a large gulp before sighing and sitting down. This was good. He could ignore everything Gabe had said and done today in favour of this.

   “Dean Smith, wasn’t it?”

   Before Dean could even look up, a chair was being pulled back and a broad guy sat down at his table. His eyes were small and dark and reminded Dean of beetles, and dark hair and beard framed his olive skinned face.

   Dean wasn’t sure why exactly it was, but he instantly didn’t like the guy.

   “You here alone?”

   “Just traveling around,” Dean growled.

   “Right, right.” The guy smirked. “Passing through, then?”

   “You could say that.” He wasn’t about to volunteer any information to some dude who knew who Dean was, but not the other way round.

   The guy kept on talking cheerily. “Keith,” he offered. Dean just nodded and stared into his bottle. He’d come here to have a drink, not to make friends. Besides, he didn’t trust this Keith guy as far as he could throw him.

   “So what’s the next stop?”

   Deep breaths. He wasn’t here to cause a fight; he’d been in enough trouble lately. “Listen, buddy. Not trying to be a dick here, but I’m really not in the mood for this, yeah?”

   Keith held up his hands in defence. “Just trying to make conversation, man.”

   “That’s great. Go try make conversation with someone else.”

   The man didn’t answer, just looked at Dean for a long moment. “Alright, Smith,” he said slowly. He got up, but instead of walking away, he leaned towards Dean. “You know, you’re something of an oddity here. Young and pretty and ‘just passing through’. I’d watch my back if I were you.”

   Dean kept his face carefully blank at the description, hands itching for his sword but staying wrapped around his drink. “I’d keep on dreaming, if I were you.” Honestly, this guy didn’t scare him. He may be bigger than Dean himself, but he didn’t look like he’d be very graceful with a sword and Dean was pretty sure he could take him.

   That didn’t mean he didn’t keep the words in the back of his mind as a reminder. He didn’t need any more complications on this journey, after all.

   By the time day four rolled around, Dean was still in Port Maroon, holding on to the little spark of hope that Gabriel had really known what he was doing. Honestly, the mer-kin was his best option, even if Dean still distrusted him to a certain level. But traveling around without knowing his specific destination wasn’t helpful to anyone either, was it?

   A little voice in his head laughed hysterically at that.

   He didn’t want to admit to himself that his so-called ‘planning’ had only taken him four days because he wanted to make sure. He couldn’t just leave without knowing what Gabe was doing. Even if it was giving him cabin fever.

   So as the sun began to set, Dean sneaked out of Gabriel’s home, not planning on returning there again. Looking around him to make sure no one was around, he left quietly for the spot Gabriel had asked him to be at. It was fairly hidden behind overgrown bushes, and the dock looked pretty dismal with the way the far end of it had rotted away.

   He sat down a few feet away from it and waited.

   “Told you the Waiting Woman was a good look on you.”

   Dean’s head snapped up at the sound of the now familiar voice. He didn’t even bother with a response, let alone a greeting. “And?”

   “Well,” said Gabriel, hoisting himself up onto the land by his arms, “your crew wasn’t out east.”

   He sounded frustratingly nonchalant. Dean cursed loudly, adding in some angry words about how he’d _told him so_ , because the waiting had apparently gotten to him and he was still no closer to his goal.

   “However,” the mer-kin went on as he waited for his tail to dissolve back into legs (Dean couldn’t help but think Cas’s tail was far nicer and immediately shook himself out of it), “I did find something else.”

   Dean was about to snap that ‘something else’ wasn’t good enough when the mer-kin pointed towards the horizon.

   “You’re kidding me.”

   “Nope.”

   It was _The Impala_ , and she was sailing towards them.

   “Wait—but if you say you didn’t find my crew…”

   Gabriel actually laughed at that. “Not the quickest, are you? Just wait, Dean-o. I wouldn’t have gone through all that trouble just to have you kill me for letting just anyone on your ship.”

   And Dean had an idea of who it could be, only he didn’t dare think it. Besides, he didn’t even know if the guy could run a ship in the first place.

   The ship came to a stop a good distance away, which Dean assumed to be to not attract attention to the secluded dock. He was still on edge, though, because that was his ship, and where’d she been all this time? What had happened to her?

   “Hello, Dean.”

   He almost fell over and toppled straight into the water at the sound of that voice, even if he’d been hoping to hear it. “Cas! I didn’t—where’d you even _come from_?”

   Cas slung his arms over the wooden pier and grinned up at Dean, dark hair glistening in the moonlight and his tail moving through the water gracefully. He looked good. Dean instantly felt bad about keeping the guy away from his home for so long. It was obvious he belonged there.

   “You look pale,” he said instead. Cas didn’t, really. He wasn’t as tanned as he was when Dean last saw him, but his cheeks had a healthy rosy glow now.

   “You look freckled, as ever,” replied Cas, because the bastard knew Dean hated his freckles. “I came from your ship. I apologize—I should have given you a warning in advance, or swam above water. I had assumed you had seen me dive off the ship.”

   “Yeah, I didn’t. Just… don’t creep up on me like that again, okay?”

   “Of course.”

   Cas was still smiling, and Dean found himself smiling, too.

   “I thought you said you had a plan to find your crew.” Cas seemed to try sounding disapproving, like a disappointed parent, though his expression hadn’t changed. Dean awkwardly scratched the back of his neck. “Eh.”

   “That’d be why he needs my awesome help,” Gabriel interrupted. “See, this moron was gonna keep endangering himself were it not for me.”

   “I had a plan,” Dean argued. Gabriel raised his eyebrows, but before he could reply to that, a voice behind them said, “So mermaids, huh?”

   Dean recognized that voice.

   A man emerged from behind the bushes, taller and broader than Dean. It looked like he’d brought a mate, too; a guy Dean recognized from the pub he’d frequented here, a little shorter than himself with hair almost white-blond, and cold, grey eyes.

   “Keith.”

   “Dean.” The guy nodded, but looked almost angry as he did so. “Always thought you a strange fella. Warned you to watch your back, didn’t I?” His expression slowly changed into a smirk. “See, we got a nice offer from Mister Crowley, didn’t we, Ian?”

   His friend grunted.

   “But this is looking even better. You a mermaid too, or is that just him?”

   Dean shot a quick look around him and noticed that Cas had gone. Keith was looking at Gabriel instead, who’d managed to put on some pants that Dean guessed he’d hidden around here before he left four days ago. He wondered how long the two idiots had been hanging around for before they’d showed their faces. If they knew about Gabe… they must know about Cas, too.

   “Wasn’t there ‘nother, huh?” Ian asked.

   “Yeah,” Keith said slowly. “Where’d you hide that one? No matter—we’ll find him, too. Probably hiding out in fear, little mermaid.”

   Dean grunted and stepped forward, sword steady in his hand. It lay a little uncomfortably in his hand still—he missed his own sword terribly—but he didn’t waste a second in swinging his arm. However, Keith was faster than he’d expected, swords clashing loudly in the silent night. No matter, Dean was sure he could take both of them. They weren’t gonna get to Cas if it’d kill him. It was Dean’s fault the guy was here in the first place.

   But he didn’t have to take on both of them, ‘cause Gabriel was right next to him, holding a short dagger that Dean would believe to be nothing against a long sword had it not been for Gabe’s surprisingly quick movements. Ian was more sluggish, as even though he had the advantage of the long weapon, his size worked against him.

   Dean told himself to trust that Gabe could handle Ian and focused entirely on Keith instead. Right in time, too, as he noticed the reflection of the moon on the blade just in time to sidestep it. He didn’t waste a moment in thrusting his own sword forward. It was a weak attempt, however. He steadied his feet, deflected another strike aimed at his stomach, and advanced again.

   He used his footwork in an attempt to put Keith on the wrong trail, trying to keep an eye on Keith’s sword and feet at the same time in case the enemy thought to do the same. The guy stepped forward, and Dean answered with parrying the blow and sidestepping to the left, wanting to make sure he wasn’t going too far back in case he’d slip right into the water.

   Which gave him an idea.

   He didn’t particularly want to drag this fight out. Chances of someone hearing the ruckus and coming to check on them were too high even at this hour. He deflected another sword stroke, the metallic clang ringing too loud in his ears as he inched more to the left, starting to circle the guy fighting him. “You think you can beat me in a sword fight?” Dean chided. “You fight like you’ve never laid hands on a weapon before.” An exaggeration, but a good way to fuel Keith’s anger nonetheless. Good. Dean needed him angry. Angry people were the easiest to trick.

   Keith’s sword went right past him, only missing by a hair because Dean ducked away in time. He felt a rush of air against his arm. Keith flashed him a manic grin that Dean didn’t like at all. He had to stay focused. Just because he was a better fighter than Keith didn’t mean he could count the fight won.

   He dodged another unsuccessful attempt at injuring his shoulder and responded to it with his own, attempting to knock the sword out of the other’s hand. It failed, but he scraped Keith’s sword hand nonetheless, causing the man to pull back at reflex.

   Dean jumped at the chance the injury created by stepping closer with a smirk and holding his own sword in a position to strike. “You wanna sell my friend here, do you?”

   Keith wisely didn’t reply.

   Dean could still see the other two moving from the corner of his eye, but paid them little attention for the time being. “Lemme tell you something. This guy? Reason I’m still alive n’ kickin’. So you so much as lay a hand on him and I’ll cut that hand off your arm, got me?” He jabbed his sword forward a little for good measure.

   “Oh, I’d much prefer to lay my hands on you,” Keith said, flashing his teeth in a feral smile. “Keep the best goods undamaged. See, mister mermaid over there could bring in more gold than you can imagine.”

   Dean seriously doubted that last part, but didn’t say anything.

   He parried an attempt to injure his right shoulder, changing his position a little. He’d lost sight of Gabriel and Ian, but tried not to think about that too much.

   His next blow was forceful, more so than Keith had apparently been expecting. It caught Dean’s opponent off balance and Dean jumped at the opportunity, slinging his sword against Keith’s and swirling around it, forcing it down before suddenly gripping Keith’s wrist with his left hand, twisting it so that he was forced to let go of his sword. It wasn’t yet to be called a victory, but it was pleasing to make it happen nonetheless.

   But Keith’s expression changed from shocked to surprise as he appeared to see something behind Dean, and almost straight to excitement. Dean knew he shouldn’t let his opponent out of his sight but he’d swivelled around before his brain had caught up with the situation.

   It was Ian, wielding Gabriel’s dagger. He looked almost wild. Worse, he looked more than ready to kill Dean, who was enclosed by the enemy now with no sign of Gabriel or Cas—

   Keith easily took advantage of the situation by grabbing both Dean’s arms from behind, twisting them so that he had to let go of his sword in pain. It fell uselessly to the ground at his side, right there for the enemy’s taking. Keith didn’t pay it any attention, though. He was twisting Dean’s elbow so that Dean almost doubled over in pain.

   Dean struggled in Keith’s grasp to kick or injure him into getting free, but any movement caused the painful strain in his arm to increase. He let out a sharp grunt as his arm was twisted nearly to its breaking point. But he couldn’t give up, not when he looked up to see Ian approaching him with the stolen dagger held high.

   He couldn’t believe he survived so much crap only to die like this. He braced himself for the blow, angling his face away from it as though that would make it less real. But the dagger never landed.

   Instead, there was a loud splash, and from the corner of Dean’s eye he saw a flash of the dark blue of Cas’ tail as the mer-kin propelled himself out of the water and tackled Ian onto the pier.

   Ian let out a loud scream as Cas dragged him down into the water in one fluid motion, using both the momentum of the initial leap and a powerful kick of his tail. Dean could just see Cas’ claws and his sharp teeth, and the way he almost didn’t even seem to notice the blond man’s struggling, before they were gone into the darkness of the waters.

   Dean thought he should perhaps be scared at the realization what a powerful creature the mer-kin was, but all he felt was a surge of relief and something that felt eerily like pride. (But that was ridiculous, because this was what Cas did—he’d said their men were soldiers, after all, protecting their nest—their loved ones.)

   It took him a moment to realize Keith’s grip had loosened, the man undoubtedly staring at the unruly water. The bubbles reaching the surface that could well be Ian’s last breath, and the rippling of the water that suggested a struggle going on not deep down. But there had been righteous rage on Castiel’s face, and Ian was only human.

   Dean took the opportunity to yank his left arm loose and aim a strong jab at the man holding him, hitting him straight in the solar plexus. The stab of pain it delivered Keith was enough for Dean to be able to pull his sword arm free as well. He wasted no time in picking up his sword, which Keith had foolishly enough not kicked out of range, and turned to face his opponent.

   Dean pointed his sword at him. “Up.”

   It seemed to take a while for Keith to take in that he was being spoken to, that what he had just witnessed had not caused the world to stop. He held up his hands in surrender. “Parlay,” he said, weakly. “I invoke the right of parlay.”

   “Parlay is a pirate law,” Dean said. “You’d need a pirate captain.”

   “And you aren’t one?” Keith asked, squinting. “By your fighting skills, I’d imagined you were. A pirate, anyway. You have to take me to your captain.”

   He spoke remarkably calm for someone who’d just seen his friend being dragged to the bottom of the ocean. Dean didn’t trust him in the slightest. Here, he wasn’t a pirate captain, just some guy who’d hitched a ride on a fishing ship. He didn’t care if he’d be damned to hell for ignoring the right of parlay. For all that he’d done throughout the years, he was probably damned already.

   “Making assumptions, huh? Tell you what. I am a pirate. That ain’t getting you anywhere if there ain’t a ship and crew.” He pressed his sword closer. Keith was starting to get more desperate again, his calm apparently nothing but a façade. His tiny eyes were trying to look around him for an escape route, and Dean could see the guy’s brain trying to find a way to crawl backwards and away from Dean without having his throat slashed right away.

   “There was a ship over there—”

   “You’re right,” Dean conceded. He could lie, say that it wasn’t his, but looking at Keith’s eyes he could hardly be bothered. “Nice try, buddy. Might’ve even worked with someone else, too. Except _I’m_ the captain of that ship over there, and I don’t feel like negotiating with someone who’s just tried to kill me and capture my friends.”

   He didn’t waste any more time. It was no use drawing this out, as much as he enjoyed it. It was too much like what Alastair had accused him of, and Dean wasn’t that kind of person.

   But watching the blood splatter from his sword onto the grass was a relief nonetheless.

   He wiped the blade of the sword on Keith’s shirt and looked around, only to see what he already knew: that Gabe wasn’t there. He cursed. “Gabriel!”

   A sound came from some nearby bushes, rustling too loud to be caused by the almost non-existent breeze. Knowing full well that it could be an animal, or worse, another guy trying to kill him, Dean slowly neared the spot.

   The bushes groaned.

   “Gabe?”

   Still holding his sword, he pushed the greenery aside with his free left hand. “Shit, Gabe!”

   The mer-kin was half curled up, clutching his abdomen with both hands. They were coated in red.

   Gabriel smiled, but it was a forced one.

   Dean took off his jacket and pulled his shirt over his head, not caring about anything but stopping the blood flowing from the wound. No matter what he’d said before Gabriel had left, this guy had saved his hide in more ways than one, and he wasn’t about to let him die.

   His undershirt was sticking to his chest with sweat. “It’s okay, man, I got you.”

   “Where’s Cassie?” Gabriel breathed.

   “Here,” Castiel’s voice suddenly sounded from behind Dean. He was standing on wobbly feet, obviously having only just changed. His legs were still a strange, blue hue from the calves down and he was stark naked, but Dean could focus only on his face.

   In the time that they’d been on the ship and the island together, Cas had only once mentioned Gabriel in passing. Dean didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but the sheer pain and fear in Castiel’s eyes caught him off guard anyway. The mer-kin’s voice, however, was steady when he said, “Let me see that.”

   Dean took a step back so Cas could get to work right away. Even though these guys looked human, they weren’t, and they might as well have a better way of treating wounds than Dean had.

   “It isn’t lethal,” Cas said after a while. “But it’s going to need better treatment than this. Does Anna have medicine with her?”

   “Always does,” muttered Gabriel.

   Cas smiled. “Yeah, she does.” He turned to Dean. “We should hurry. Dean, I need you to stand guard with Gabriel for me. He cannot move.” That last part was said sternly, and probably more directed at Gabriel than Dean. “I must go back to the ship to get Anna. She has more knowledge of this than I do.”

   “’Course,” said Dean.

   “I’ll be back soon,” Cas said, and with one more worried look at Gabriel, he was gone again.

   Dean quickly picked up the sword Keith had dropped earlier and returned to where the wounded mer-kin lay. Despite the effort it cost his injured arm, he took a stance holding both the newly acquired sword and his own, just in case someone might have heard the ruckus and decided to come take a look.

   For once, however, luck seemed to be on his side, as no one turned up except Anna and Cas, who barely paid him any attention. Anna dropped down next to her brother, wearing nothing but a belt made of shells that she’d fashioned into a sort of medicine storage by the looks of it.

   Dean turned his attention to Cas, who was standing a few feet away, looking worried. Droplets of water on his skin reflected the moonlight, and Dean was at once hit with how beautiful he looked.

   He’d had such thoughts before, sometimes when Cas had kissed him or when he saw his tail. He tried to push them away. They were inappropriate, not only because Cas hadn’t asked for this, but also because they were both _guys_.

   It wasn’t entirely uncommon, although it was never spoken of. But in Dean’s experience, men lying with men (to put it nicely) were not a good thing. He was reminded of Alastair and almost gagged. No, those weren’t things he’d ever like to experience again.

   So why was it that the look, the thought of Cas naked and with him, didn’t send him running?

   Shit, he shouldn’t be thinking this at all. Cas’s brother was hurt, badly, and the mer-kin’s eyebrows were knit together with worry. “Hey, Cas?”

   The mer-kin looked up.

   “It’s gonna be alright, man. You said it yourself, it’s not lethal. You’re all gonna be fine.” _I’m sorry I caused you this much trouble._

“We will,” Cas said, not at all sounding like he doubted it. “Gabriel is tough. We all are.”

   “Then what’s wrong?”

   Cas sighed. “Dean, I… I believed you knew how to find your family when we parted. I believed you would be safe.”

   “I’m a pirate, Cas,” Dean interrupted him. “There’s no such thing as safe.”

   The mer-kin started to look frustrated now. “Do you deliberately put yourself in danger, Dean? Is your life worth so little to you? Why is it that you so easily make decisions you know could have disastrous results?”

   “I don’t…”

   “Because I am sure your family would prefer to find out you had survived on Alastair’s ship without you having died from stupidity not long after.” His tone was getting louder, more angry. “I got you out of there, Dean. Don’t throw that away because you are afraid to accept help!”

   “I’m not…”

   “Then what _are_ you afraid of?”

   Dean had no answer to that. Or maybe he had. _I’m afraid of being in your debt even more than I already am, ‘cause you keep saving my life. I’m afraid of getting too attached to you if I accept your help. I’m afraid I already am._ Cas had been his only support for so long, and Dean wasn’t sure what to do without him.

   “At least let me help you this time.”

   “You guys keep helping me,” Dean said quietly. “I can’t be any more in your debt, Cas. Look at the damage I’ve caused. I can’t accept anything else.”

   “You don’t get a choice,” Gabriel piped up from where he was still lying on the ground. “We didn’t go through all this crap to have you get killed just because you’re being an idiot, you know.”

   “But…”

   “No,” said Gabe sternly. “I’m asking this as my dying wish, Dean.”

   “You’re not dying.”

   “Look at all the blood!” He held up his hands so Dean could see them over Anna’s head. She’d been ignoring all of them in favour of applying some weird paste to Gabe’s wound that looked slightly nasty. Dean tried not to look at it too closely.

   “Fine,” he gave in. “But I’m paying you back. I dunno how yet, but I will.”

   “Of course,” Cas said gravely, but with a smile on his face.

   Gabriel healed well over the course of the next few days. He was complaining loudly about having to lie down the entire time while Cas and Anna and the few other mer-kin—who came along mainly out of curiosity for Dean—got to swim alongside the ship in turns, but he didn’t actually seem to mind all that much. Dean thought it was mainly because it gave Gabriel an excuse to demand food and other luxuries to be brought to him constantly.

   It annoyed Dean, but not as much as it once would have. It was his fault that all this had happened, so if Gabriel wanted Dean’s homemade soup, he’d get it.

   Things were going surprisingly, almost scarily easy now. Cas, before he’d gone home, had first gone to tell Gabriel what had happened. Gabriel had become estranged from most of his nest because he liked it on land, but had always gotten along well with Castiel and found it hard to deny him anything. They’d agreed that Gabe would keep an eye out for Dean, his crew, or his ship. Port Maroon may be small, but it was also central enough that it was likely that any of the three would pass by.

   Cas had then tried to go on as he was used to, trying to appease the head of their nest and defending it whenever necessary. But, he said, he’d longed for something else, although he hadn’t dared admit it. He’d been almost relieved when Gabriel turned up again (although “You wouldn’t have liked to have been there,” Cas said, “Michael wouldn’t agree to let him speak to me, he was afraid Gabriel would corrupt me.” At which Gabe loudly exclaimed that Cas didn’t need him to do that). Apparently, Anna had heard of _The Impala_ ; it had been under the command of a small group of Alastair’s old crew, and the mermaids had had no problem whatsoever overpowering them.

   Dean didn’t think he deserved the trouble, but Cas would just stare him down if he said so, so he learned to shut up about it and accept it as it was.

   And thus they’d ended up where they were now, following the lead Anna’s sisters had provided them to the stolen East Indiaman that was supposedly being manned by Dean’s crew.

[ ](http://i.imgur.com/INGDzZk.jpg?1)

   “They’re gonna freak out when they see the ship,” Dean said. “’Cause I’m supposed to be dead at this point and all that.” Cas rolled his eyes, a habit he seemed to have picked up from Dean himself. The pirate ignored it. “So we’re gonna make damn sure they can see me when we get close, aye?”

   He was nervous about it—not that he’d admit that to anyone. But here he was, surrounded by an odd few people who were actually mermaids, about to show his crew that he wasn’t dead after all, and hell if he knew how he was gonna explain that.

   “Sail ho!” a blonde mer-kin named Balthazar exclaimed, pointing toward the horizon. “Think that could be them?”

   Balthazar was the guy Cas had once told a story about involving a ‘ménage à twelve’ (‘cause Balthazar did, in fact, come from European waters) that had ended up slightly less pleasurable than intended. “Mermaids are a handful,” Castiel had said seriously. “Twelve of them proved a bit… too much.”

   The guy, as the story suggested, was a bit strange, but he was also helpful, so Dean wasn’t about to complain.

   “I’ll go see,” said Cas, diving off without waiting for anyone’s reply.

   “Keep on straight ahead,” Dean said unnecessarily.

   It didn’t take Cas long to return, smiling and nodding that it seemed indeed to be the ship they’d been searching for. “Great,” Dean said, “Then put on some pants. I’m not introducing you guys to my family in your full glory.”

   He thought he heard Balthazar say something in reply to that, but he didn’t hear it. The East Indiaman was nearing fast now, and Dean’s nerves were sky high.

   The navy ship had its cannons out and ready. _The Impala_ didn’t. Dean had told the others that should it go wrong, they should inconspicuously get back into the waters and to their family, ‘cause he wasn’t about to shoot at his own, no matter what.

   Even from this distance, he could see Sam shouting out orders, and he couldn’t deny the pride that welled up inside him. “C’mon, Sammy,” Dean murmured to himself. “Look up.”

   It took some nerve-wracking moments in which Dean felt like he was about to throw up, honestly believing that he was going to be shot by his own crew, before Sam finally did look up. Straight at Dean, too.

   “Hold back fire!” he yelled, not taking his eyes off his brother. “Dean?”

   “Ahoy, Sammy,” Dean called, giving a quick wave. He quickly dropped his hand again, however.

   Sam wasn’t smiling. From what Dean could tell, he was searching for any clues that something wasn’t right here, and he couldn’t blame his brother for it. In fact, he would’ve given Sam hell for it if he’d just accepted this.

   “I’m gonna get on their ship,” Dean told Cas, who looked at him like he’d gone crazy. “It’s cool, man.”

   Cas frowned, but didn’t try to hold Dean back. “Okay.”

   “I’m coming to you,” Dean yelled at Sam, holding up his hands. “No weapons, okay?”

   Sam was frowning, but nodded.

   With some help from Cas (decidedly natural help with the plank, ‘cause he had the suspicion his crew wouldn’t take kindly to unexpected supernatural show-offs) Dean ended up on the other ship’s main deck. It was as though time stood still for a while then. Everyone seemed to be staring at him, holding their breaths as they waited for Sam to react to his brother’s reappearance.

   Sam came closer slowly, taking in every detail and registering even the smallest movements. “Tell me mom’s name,” he said. Dean almost wanted to roll his eyes and tell Sam to come up with something better.

   “Mary,” he said instead, a small smile threatening to show at the thought of her. “Mary Campbell.”

Sam was on him in a second, hugging him tight like he didn’t really believe it wasn’t a ghost he was seeing until he’d made sure his arms really couldn’t go through Dean. “I thought you were dead.”

   “I know,” Dean said. “I’m sorry.”

   “What? No—Dean, it’s not your fault, it’s Alastair’s. We heard their ship was attacked by mermaids and I… is that true?” Sam was studying his face now, like all the answers lay there. “How did you even _survive_? What _happened_?”

   “Long story,” Dean said, looking back at his own ship where Cas was still standing in the same spot as he’d left him, looking at them.

   “We’ve got time,” Jo said from behind Sam. “Explain, Winchester.” But she was smiling, too. They all were.

   Dean wasn’t entirely sure what he deserved a happy ending for, but he was grateful. He expressed this with the gruff sound of “Thanks, man,” without looking at anyone. He wondered if this was it, for some reason they’d gotten him his ship back and now everything would go back like it was before.

   “Are you sure about this? He seems too stupid to get it.”

   “Quiet, Uriel,” said Anna.

   “Get what?” Dean asked, confused, not daring to be hopeful. They were all looking stoically at him, except Gabriel, who was looking at Castiel.

   “I would like to stay,” said Cas.

   “I thought—” Dean started, not really sure how he was going to finish that sentence. _I thought that Michael guy wouldn’t let you out of sight again. I thought you wanted to be with your family. I didn’t think you’d care about me enough to come back._

   He wasn’t sure why it made him feel so meek inside. Sure, Cas had saved him in more ways than one from Alastair’s ship—he got him away from there, but he also kept him sane. But that was the girliest thing he’d even thought, and Dean wasn’t anything of the sort.

   “You sell yourself short,” Castiel said.

   “But your family…”

   “That’d be us,” Anna said. “I’d like to strike up a deal with you, Winchester.”

   A catch, then.

   “Don’t look so scared. Castiel wants to be here rather than under the sea with us. Poseidon knows why, brutish two-fins you are.” Dean had the feeling she knew perfectly well they were called legs, but tried to make a statement by calling them differently. He wisely decided not to take the bait and say something about the ‘brutish’ part. She looked at him like she knew he wanted to. “Anyway, he thinks you’re interesting, and we figured out… an alliance.”

   “An alliance,” Dean repeated dumbly. “How’d that work, huh?”

   “You keep doing what you’ve been doing, only with help.” She rolled her eyes. “That’s the word for it in your language too, right?” As if mermaids didn’t speak any English at all.

   “What she means,” Castiel finally said, “is that you usually go for the worst pirates, yes? Now, you would still do so, only our sisters will help you defeat them.”

   Dean almost wanted to reply that he didn’t need any help, but at seeing Castiel’s withering look, he thought it over anyway. How’d that go? Would there even be anything left to do for them? Mermaids could fend perfectly well for themselves, any pirate knew that. They were more dangerous than any human sailor could ever be.

   Castiel seemed to know what he was thinking, because he said, “You—we—could do exactly as you do now,” he repeated. “Take over the ship. Raid it. Take care of the captain. My sisters would only come in when things would get hard, or at the end of your battle.”

   “Really, all we want is to feed,” Anna said nonchalantly, as if they were talking about chickens rather than human beings. “Castiel tells us you go for the worst cases. We’d only do the world a favour by getting rid of them. Castiel could let us know when to come to your aid.”

   “Okay,” Dean said, “but we’re not immune to your singing, man. It wouldn’t be of any use if you’re just gonna drag us down with you.”

   She rolled her eyes. “Put your fingers in your ears. You have Jo, and Castiel.” She looked at him like she had more to add, but didn’t. It irked Dean to no end. “Besides, we wouldn’t drag any of you down with us if Castiel doesn’t want us to.”

   And frankly, it didn’t sound so bad if it meant Cas would be on the ship with them. And somehow, inexplicably (still, even after everything Cas had done for him), Dean trusted the mer-kin. That, and the thought of the fears of other men when being confronted with the biggest fear of a sailor and finding they were in league with their opponents…

   “I don’t trust you,” Dean said, “but I trust Cas.”

   “That’s cute,” Gabriel said. “But you’re the one in trouble if you don’t trust your allies.”

   “Dean,” Sam said quietly. “Can we…” He gestured his brother over just a few steps back, and said in a low tone, “This could be really good. The mermaids wouldn’t be attacking any good men if we help them seek out the worst ones. We could keep them away from people who don’t deserve it without hurting anyone. Think about it!” He sounded almost excited even in a whisper. “This could be the start of something great—something between humans and merpeople…”

   The older Winchester sincerely doubted that last part. Sam was right about the rest, however. “Fine.” Then, louder, "Okay.”

   “Perfect,” said Gabriel. “Can I go back to land now? I like the two-legs, you know. Those thighs could crush someone.” He wiggled his eyebrows.

   “ _Gabriel_ ,” Anna said, annoyed.

   “You should try it sometime.”

   “Gabriel,” Cas growled as well. Gabriel just smirked at him, like he was trying to convey something. “Wait until you’ve been living among the two-legs for a while, little bro.”

   Castiel moved his gaze to Dean at that. In fact, everybody did. Dean sighed, but smiled. “Yeah, man. Plenty of things to discover up here.”

   That sealed the deal.

   “Welcome to the crew, Cas.”

 


	6. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean isn’t influenced by the call of mermaids, because Dean is in love with one.

   Jo, the pirate Alfie had been fighting and had assumed to be a young boy, likes to joke about Dean being lovestruck. A lot. Usually when Castiel is out in the water, and Dean is pretending not to be fretting over his boyfriend.

   The mer-kin likes to dive back into the sea every now and then. He says it makes him feel free, sliding through the waters and exercising his fins. Jo teasingly said that Dean couldn’t miss him that long, and that Castiel should watch out before Dean decides to jump straight after him to ensure his safety. Their captain had gone completely red and shut himself in his cabin, but he stopped arguing about it after that.

   Castiel, for his part, had said it would be ridiculous for Dean to do that, and that it was safer for him under the water than it was for Dean above it. This was probably true. No one dared agree with him, though, not with Dean looking like he was about to murder the first person who did.

   Alfie thinks it’s nice, their protectiveness of each other (and, honestly, of the crew). It doesn’t fit the stories he’d heard about this ship’s captains, and he likes that. The difference between captains and crew is less distinct than it had been on the _Hell’s Rise_. He feels like at least his opinion is worth something, here.

   He’d been angry at first, because he didn’t think all of the crew of _Hell’s Rise_ had deserved to die. He still gets angry when he thinks about it, so he tries not to. He almost likes it here, were it not for that.

   He’ll get used to it someday.

   On the plus side, he’s being treated better than he’d ever been on Crowley’s ship, and he’s learning a lot about which stories are and aren’t true. He’s still intrigued by this ship and her crew, but for different reasons.

   For instance: Dean isn’t influenced by the call of mermaids, because Dean is in love with one.

   Alfie has learned quickly enough that he’s not allowed to say that. Sam, the horrifically tall man who was proven not to be the ship’s second captain but Dean’s brother, teases their captain with it on a regular basis, and Dean hates it. The only reason Sam gets away with it is the family bond. Dean thinks love is a girl thing. Whenever she hears it, Jo will chew him out for that.

   All in all, it’s a strange dynamic on the ship. Alfie only has experience with the _Hell’s Rise_ , but he doesn’t think it’s like this on any other ships, either. They’re more like a bickering family than a crew, and Alfie is almost honoured to be included in it.

   To think that he’d been so afraid of these people not long ago.

   “Stop worrying, boy,” Bobby says gruffly to Dean, who’s looking out over the still water. “Your boyfriend will come back whenever he sees fit.”

   Dean purses his lips and stays exactly where he is.

   Alfie rolls his eyes and gets back to work.

   Cas doesn’t stay out very long. He never does.

   As much as he likes making Dean go a little crazy, he also knows Dean worries too much. Cas has lived in the deep all his life. He’s a soldier. He can take care of himself.

   Dean knows that. Shit, Cas can be positively _frightening_. He just can’t help himself.

   He’s obviously not paying enough attention again when suddenly Cas is right in front of him, smirking and moving his tail so that Dean gets a face full of water. By the looks of it, the mer-kin has only just climbed up the Jacob’s ladder, waiting for his legs to return. It’s tiring for him to get back on the ship like that, having to use the sheer strength of his arms with only a bit of head start from the initial jump out of the water, but he claims it to be worth it. Dean believes him.

   Usually, they have pants around somewhere for Cas to put on right away. Cas, for his part, still doesn’t see the problem of walking around buck naked. He’ll put them on for Dean’s sake, though, which Dean is grateful for. Cas may be comfortable without any clothes on—and it makes sense, Dean guesses, because technically when he’s in the water, he’s naked all the time—but Dean is decidedly less so.

   Sometimes Cas can’t find the pants quickly enough, and he’ll walk towards the captain’s cabin just like that. Sometimes Dean is working on deck when that happens, and he’ll see him go. His eyes seem to be magnetically attracted to Castiel’s ass like that.

   Today is one of those days.

   “Sammy, take over from me, will ya?”

   His brother wrinkles his nose, muttering something about Dean being disgusting, But Dean is also the only one regularly getting laid on this ship, so he can deal with that.

   He hurries to their cabin without further ado.

   “Cas.”

   “Yes, Dean.”

   “We leave pants for you, you know.”

   Castiel doesn’t look the slightest bit sorry. “I know. I couldn’t find them.” His expression is serious—but then, it is most of the time—but his eyes are gleaming. Like hell he couldn’t find them. “I prefer being without pants, anyway. They’re… confining.” He looks pointedly at Dean’s crotch, where the fabric of his pants is starting to tent.

   Dean growls. “You—”

   “Yes,” says Cas.

   Dean’s on him in an instant, lips pressing down hard on the other man’s, hand finding its way in Castiel’s dark hair. He carefully stays away from any other places for now, but he knows that’s not gonna last long.

   Castiel smirks into the kiss and opens his mouth a little.

   For someone who’d never had sex before (or so Dean assumed, since Cas had explained a nest was a family, and so the only way to find a mate was to seek out another nest, which he hadn’t), Castiel had learned fast. They’d both had to figure some things out at first. Dean, though he would never admit it, had felt uncomfortable at first. Every touch on bare skin still reminded him of Alastair, no matter if he knew that Cas would never hurt him or how gentle those touches were.

   Cas’ tongue is everywhere, exploring Dean’s mouth even though he must know it so well by now. Even so, it’s never gonna stop being good, and Dean will never stop responding in kind.

   “Sometimes,” Cas says after letting go of Dean’s mouth, “when I’m in the water, I think of you.”

   “Yeah? What’s it you think about?”

   If he was expecting Cas to say something sexual, he was sorely mistaken. He should’ve known that, though. Cas doesn’t say those kind of things. It’s not that he can’t—Dean’s heard him say some pretty hot things in the heat of the moment—but the mer-kin refuses to ‘talk dirty’ when he can logically think about his words.

   Instead, he’s tracing his fingers along the scars on Dean’s abdomen, the ones he can feel under his shirt. The ones that Dean hates so much.

   Dean wants to pull away at the touch. He always does, no matter how many times Cas has seen him naked. The mer-kin refuses to let him go. “No,” he growls, suddenly pulling up Dean’s shirt over his head. Dean lets him. “I want you to understand that there is nothing about you I don’t love.”

   He says it so easily, like loving is just a thing you do. Jo and Sam are always trying to tell Dean that’s exactly the case, but they’re both girls, and Dean—Dean is scared. He ignores that specific word for now. They can pretend it was never said out loud.

   Still, he can’t help himself when he asks, “Why?”

   Cas crouches down until his face is at the height of Dean’s stomach. His fingers are back on the scars, tracing them around Dean’s sides to his back. In any other scenario, Dean would find the position incredibly hot. But it’s not, because the scars remind him of pain and fear and things he likes to pretend he never felt.

   “Scars are not signs of weakness,” says Cas quietly, pressing a light kiss to the one on Dean’s abdomen he’d been tracing earlier. “They show that you’ve been through a lot, and that despite how bad it was, you survived.”

   “I don’t see how that makes it any better.”

   “They prove your strength, Dean. The fact that you’re still here, despite these,” another kiss, to a different scar, “tells more about you than anyone capable of inflicting them.”

   He wants to ask what it says about him, because he still doesn’t see it. He sees the cruelty of the world around him. He remembers thinking that if he could pay Alastair back in kind, he would. He remembers wanting to die.

   Cas rises back up to a standing position, taking hold of Dean’s face. It’s an unexpectedly nice feeling. “It means you have something real to live for,” he says finally. “You’re here, Dean, and I am grateful for that.”

   Dean wishes he knew what to say to that, but he’s never been good with words. Instead, he kisses Cas again, trying to convey the sentiment of _I’m grateful too_ and _I owe you that_ and _Thank you_.

   Castiel answers it like he knows.

   He’s walking Dean back towards his bunk, pushing the blond captain down upon it; mouth never leaving his. His hands are back on Dean’s torso, wandering lightly but not allowing for any of the pressure Dean desperately wants.

   His mouth leaves Dean’s only to join his hands in mapping out Dean’s skin, his breath ghosting over scars and light cuts from a more recent fight, careful to never come close to his nipples.

   “Cas, man, come on,” Dean complains lightly.

   “If you want something, you need only ask.”

   Dean has learned the difference between begging—which makes him feel weak and back in places he doesn’t want to be—and asking long ago. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still hate doing it. “You’re killing me here.”

   Castiel just hums and resumes his work.

   Dean grits his teeth and tries to push his pants down himself, but Cas isn’t going to let him. Fine, then. “Can we please get rid of any clothes still on me,” he snaps.

   “As you wish.”

   He’s naked in an incredibly short time that at the same time lasts far too long. Cas’ hands are on the insides of his thighs and his face not much further, smiling up at Dean. He places several kisses in that area that are completely different from the ones he pressed onto Dean’s scars only moments ago. They’re sloppier, full with the promise of what’s going to happen. Dean groans as they get ever closer to his cock until Cas is kissing his way along the hard line of it and ends his trail with licking a drop of precome off the head.

   Cas doesn’t go through with the promise though; Dean doesn’t let him. He pulls Cas back up only to let his own fingers roam, unable to resist moving his hips up when he feels Cas’ erection against his thigh.

   “I don’t think so,” Cas says with a devious smile.

   Dean whines a little.

   Cas sits up a little, making space so that when he says “Turn around,” Dean can do so. Lying on his stomach is even worse because of the friction even the slightest movement gives, but it’s also better because Cas is straddling his thighs and touching his ass now. Dean hated the thought of that at first, but he’s learnt. He’s learnt how to trust Cas.

   “Have I ever told you how beautiful you are?”

   “Cas,” Dean groans. “Don’t.”

   The mer-kin doesn’t say anything. He lets his knuckles slide over Dean’s spine, softly, before moving his hands to his ass. He kneads it a little before giving Dean a light spank. “No complaining.”

   He doesn’t get the chance to. Cas’ finger is ghosting over his rim now, and it takes everything Dean has not to move into the touch. He needs it _inside_.

   Instead, Cas removes his finger, and Dean’s about to complain anyway when his legs are gently forced apart and it’s replaced by a hot, wet tongue.

   He whimpers.

   Dean can almost feel the bastard’s smirk as his tongue moves past Dean’s rim. His entire body’s trembling now with the effort of staying still and it doesn’t help that he’s painfully hard at this point. “Cas, I swear, if you’re gonna keep doing that—” He doesn’t finish his sentence in favour of a small groan, but the point is made.

   Cas disappears for a second to dip his fingers in the grease they keep for this purpose and unceremoniously pushes one finger inside.

   Dean bucks up into it.

   “Is that good?” He doesn’t ask it as an actual question anymore. Cas used to ask if what he was doing was right a lot when they first had sex; now he just does it because he knows Dean likes hearing him say it. And maybe still a little to make Dean feel more comfortable, let him know that if he answers in the negative, they will stop immediately. “Do you want more, Dean?” He pulls out a little and pushes back in.

   “Fuck—yeah.”

   The mer-kin doesn’t waste any time in respecting Dean’s wishes, slowly adding another finger and scissoring him until he needs his left hand to push Dean down by his lower back. Cas is controlling—Dean guesses it’s because he used to be required to obey the rules all the time—and Dean kinda likes it.

   It’s then that Cas hits his prostate for the first time, and as Dean lets out a long groan, he seems to decide a third finger is in order. Dean hisses a little at the stretch while at the same time wanting more. He needs Cas to get on with it already. Cas, however, has a tendency to take his time to be entirely sure he won’t hurt Dean. “Cas, _please_. I can handle it, man.”

   “Okay,” says Cas, only to pump his fingers into Dean a few more times before finally pulling out and slicking up his cock. Dean wants to sit up on all fours just because it gives him the idea of being more accessible, closer to Cas. He doesn’t. Instead, he opts for spreading his legs just that bit more.

   Dean doesn’t think he’ll ever get sick of the feeling of Cas pushing into him, slowly but with intent. He’d never expected to like being filled up like this—especially not after…

   But he doesn’t think about that now. Cas is draped over him and moving slowly, and it’s good. He feels safe like this, now.

   He searches for Cas’ hand next to him and squeezes it. “C’mon Cas, I know you can go harder than that,” he says only half-teasingly.

   Cas doesn’t like criticism whatsoever. He pulls out, flipping Dean over so the pirate is lying with his back on the bunk. Dean happily pulls up his legs to allow Cas easier entrance. He likes this position. More specifically, he likes seeing the mer-kin’s face as both of them come undone.

   Cas is going less gently now, too, changing his angle a bit to find Dean’s prostate, and when he does, it’s glorious.

   “Cas—yeah, there, _shit_.”

   “You like that?”

   Dean answers only with pants, to which Cas asks the question again, more forcefully. “Damn right I like that, Cas, show me what—fuck—show me what you got, hm? I wanna, ah, be feeling you for the rest of the week.”

   Cas’ movements are going hard and fast now, skin slapping against skin. It’s hot and sweaty and Dean’s world has narrowed down to his lower body. He reaches for his aching cock, letting out a loud groan as he comes into contact with the hot skin. “Cas…”

   But Cas lets him at it for a bit before taking over and saying, “I know you want to let go, Dean, so let go,” and making Dean come all over his hand.

   Weak as his bones are, Dean’s forcing himself to keep his legs wide and his eyes on Cas. The mer-kin doesn’t last much longer. Dean can feel his come filling his insides and lets himself relax into the feeling.

   And then Cas is pulling out and Dean lowers himself back onto the bed, Cas right with him. “You gotta stop walking around naked on my ship,” he says with a groan, but also a smile.

   Technically it’s their ship—Cas is co-captain, but only because he’s in charge of communicating with their allies. He helps out on deck, but doesn’t make decisions or give out orders, and he never complains when Dean still calls the ship his baby.

   “I don’t know, I rather like the outcome.”

   Dean yawns. “We gotta try it in the water sometime. Is that a thing?” He can’t believe he hasn’t asked sooner. Then again, it took quite a while for him to be comfortable with sex with Cas when he has legs, let alone a fin.

   “Mer-kin have sex as well, Dean.”

   “So we could?” He grins. “I’m putting that on our to-do list.”

   Cas rolls his eyes. “We should clean up.” He takes a cloth that’s thrown over a chair, inspects it, and appears to find it sufficiently clean to wipe the stickiness of them.

   They stay like that for a while, content in the silence. It’s only when Dean’s dozing off that Cas opens his mouth again, and then it is to sing softly.

   “Cas,” Dean murmurs, feeling a blush creep up even though Cas is quiet enough that no one outside the cabin can hear him. “C’mon, man, you already got me, you don’t have to unleash any siren songs on me anymore.” The mer-kin hasn’t sung for him in years; not since the worst of Dean’s nightmares were gone.

   “I have never sung any siren songs to you,” Cas says. “Our kind cares not only for what you know us for, Dean. Those songs back then were about hope, and faith.” He sounds just a little chastising, rightfully so. Dean knows Cas never used any siren mojo to get the pirate to do as the mer-kin wanted.

   “Oh,” is all Dean can come up with as a reply.

   “You are embarrassed,” Cas states, and Dean has nothing to say to that because it’s true. Even after all this time, he’s still uncomfortable thinking about that time in his life; has still not come to terms with it.

   “Am not,” he still tries.

   The mer-kin sighs and traces the tattoo over his lover’s heart—the Winchester family crest, Dean had explained once. “It is no shame to need help,” he says. “You were tortured physically and mentally.”

   As if Dean needed reminding.

   “I tried to help you in the only way I could, but it is a small miracle you held out so long. You are strong. Yet one can be strong _and_ admit to needing help, you know.”

   Dean grumbles. “What was this song gonna be about?” he asks, mainly to change the subject.

   It’s Cas’ turn to blush now, something Dean realizes he’s never seen him do before.

   “Passion,” Cas says finally, looking away. “And… love.”

   The answer fills Dean up with a warmth he isn’t accustomed to. It feels disgustingly like Sam’s descriptions of what love is supposed to feel like.

   Dean has learnt, throughout the years, that there is a difference for mer-kin between saying and singing. They sing only about the things that are important to them, in a language unknown to humans. Cas once said it’s called Enochian, and it is the language of the mer-kin. The only reason mermaids sing in human language, he says, is because it makes them seem closer to humans. Humans are intrigued by things they don’t understand, but only to a certain point.

   Dean disagrees with that. Cas says it’s because he’s different.

   “You trying to tell me you love me?” He tries putting it off as a joke, but for some reason, his voice is shaking. The mer-kin said it earlier as well, but this time it’s not something Dean can ignore.

   Cas is looking at him in that way that makes it seem like he’s staring straight into Dean’s soul. He stays like that for what feels like a long time before finally saying, “I left everything for you. I think you know.”

   He doesn’t say it like he’s expecting an answer. Dean isn’t sure if he’s ready to give him one.

   Sure, he cares for Cas. He kinda got attached to the dude over time. In fact, he thinks it started when Cas was the only one to keep him sane. And now he can’t imagine the guy not being here even if it’s a very real possibility that Cas is gonna get sick of him sometime.

   “You’re doing it again,” Cas says gravely. “Doubting yourself.”

   “It’s just—you’re gonna want to leave. Maybe not now, but someday you will. I’m not a good person, Cas. There’s no such thing as a good pirate, okay?”

   The mer-kin is touching the scars on Dean’s chest again, light as feathers. “Desperate situations show a man’s true soul,” he says quietly. “I have seen you on Alastair’s ship, Dean. I have seen you hurt, and healing. You have already shown me the kind of person you are.”

   “And yet you’re still here,” Dean says, more than a hint of disbelief and bitterness in what he’d meant to say lightly.

   “Yes,” says Cas. “I am not going to leave, Dean. I have to go see my family sometimes, but I will always come back. It has been three years. You should know this.”

   Three years. Dean can barely imagine it’s been that long, yet at the same time it feels like he’s known Castiel forever. He’s been… well, _happy_ for three years, or as happy as a pirate gets to be, with his ship and his family and _Cas_.

   “Hey—Cas?”

   “Yes, Dean?”

   “You too.”

   Cas frowns. “I don’t—”

   Dean looks away and clears his throat. “I…” He looks back into those ridiculously blue eyes, stomach rolling with anxiety. He’s never said this before. “I love you, too.”

   It feels strange to say it. A little awkward. Still, Dean can’t regret it when Cas’s eyes light up in the most beautiful way he’s ever seen, and in that moment he thinks he can actually believe they’re allowed to be happy. They're still pirates, and there will be adventures on the way, but in this moment, they can be happy.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! This was the first proper longer fic I've written in over three years, and I was super nervous but also super excited about posting this. Anyway, I hope to hear from you! Also, do check out the [art masterlist](http://nunubunkie.tumblr.com/tagged/ocean%20blues) and leave some love.
> 
> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://squintymisha.tumblr.com).


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